


The Point of No Return

by PlatinumPuppy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Dark elements, Friendship/Love, Jealousy, Kinda, M/M, Manipulative Tom Riddle, Oblivious Harry Potter, Obsession, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parseltongue, Pining, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Tom Riddle, Slow Burn, Slytherin Harry Potter, Tom Riddle being creepy, Young Tom Riddle, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:14:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25364452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlatinumPuppy/pseuds/PlatinumPuppy
Summary: After the tragic death of Dumbledore, Harry travels back in time, seeking to prevent Tom Riddle from creating the Horcruxes. This time, Harry is determined to make a new beginning and prevent the twisted and cruel fate he knows awaits. But it is not long before Harry realises not all is as it seems in Hogwarts, and he finds himself fighting for more than just his future...
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 119
Kudos: 441





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, hi! This will be my first (and hopefully not last) Harry Potter fanfic. I know the 'Harry travels back in time and gets sorted into Slytherin' trope is overused but I love the idea so much I wrote my own version! I don't know what this will turn into in the long run but I hope it'll be a fun ride. I may be making a few edits or changes along the way if I need to. Any mistakes in this story are all my own fault. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: This story slightly changes the canon timeline when Tom discovers the Horcruxes. I actually got the timeline wrong when I wrote this, but just to clear when Harry time-travels Tom hasn't discovered the Horcruxes or opened the Chamber of Secrets yet. This will be made clear in the story, I promise! :D

  


Dumbledore’s death had torn him apart. It had been a desolate, freezing shock that sliced Harry to the bone. He had stood there, immobilised and helpless by Dumbledore’s spell, forced to watch as Snape uttered those unforgivable words. The light, terrible and strikingly green as it appeared and left all too quickly, blasting Dumbledore with such intensity he was tossed into the air. Harry remembered seeing his body hovering there, the life leaving his eyes.

At that moment, Harry wanted to kill Snape. He wanted to utterly obliterate him, numb to any guilt or remorse. The drive to see him suffer was all he needed to bolt after Snape, bellowing the darkest, most powerful spells he knew. Harry was strong. But Snape was better. He slipped away like smoke into the night, leaving Harry defeated.

And now, here he was, in the twisted aftermath, standing over Dumbledore’s tomb. The gravestone was marble and brilliantly white against the lush blades of grass, framed by radiant flowers of every colour. Harry reached out and traced the engraved lettering, thinking it might bring him closer to Dumbledore, thinking he might feel a connection to him. But the stone was cold and still. 

Ginny appeared next to him, her head bowed respectfully, but she didn’t speak. Instead, she leaned down with her wand in hand and conjured a bunch of pure-white flowers at the bottom of the tomb.

Lilies. Harry smiled sadly. 

They stood there for a long moment before Ginny spoke, her voice gentle. “The train will be leaving soon.”

Harry didn’t say anything. He didn’t lift his hand from the stone.

“Harry,” Hermione called out softly from behind him. “It’s time to go now.”

“I know,” he answered, his voice hoarse from disuse. “I just… forgot something back in Gryffindor tower.”

“Go quickly,” Hermione said. “You don’t want to miss the train.”

“I won’t.” 

Harry’s hand dropped to his side as he gathered the strength to turn away from the grave. He didn’t make eye-contact with Ginny or Hermione as he walked away from them and toward the castle. 

Looking over his shoulder, he added, “Don’t wait for me.”

_  
_

__

****

* * *

  


True to his word, Harry did go to Gryffindor tower, surprised when the Fat Lady believed his half-hearted excuse and let him in. He fell still when he entered the common room, oddly foreign to him despite the hearty decor of red and gold. He had never seen it so neat before, so silent. The cushions should have been creased and out of place. There should have been remnants of Exploding Snap on the tables, littered with sweet wrappers and study notes.

The feeling of unease hovered over him like a stubborn raincloud to the dormitories and he couldn’t help but stare at the empty four-poster beds for a moment, before reaching for his trunk at the bottom of his bed. He flicked open the clasps and dug around until he held what he came for. The Invisibility Cloak and the Marauders Map. They were solid and comforting in his hands. 

The only connections he had to his father. They seemed to infuse him with a strength he thought lost.

Mustering that strength, he stuffed his treasures into a rutty old bag and made his way to Dumbledore’s office for the last time. He avoided looking at the portraits, none of them seemed to pay him any attention anyway.

When he entered the office Harry’s heart sank as he realised that everything, every last object in the room, was exactly how Dumbledore left it. The curious, silver, musical contraptions that Harry remained clueless about, the Sorting Hat was as shabby as ever, Fawkes abandoned perch, the bowl of sherbert lemons, Dumbledore’s favourite sweet. The office was still charged with Dumbledore’s energy. 

Harry thought he could stay in the office for hours just looking at everything, trying to reclaim a hint of the security he felt with Dumbledore.

But Harry was not here to mourn. 

He walked behind Dumbledore’s desk and unlocked the first drawer, sliding it open with ease. And there it was.

Dainty, gold and unassuming. The last Time-Turner. 

Harry picked it up and stared at it for a moment. The thin chain, the tiny hourglass, an exact replica of the one Hermione had used back in Third Year. He smiled at the memory.

Dumbledore had discussed time-travel with him once. Use it as a last resort only, he had said. If they had failed to destroy the Horcruxes, it was the final road to take.

An ordinary Time-Turner could only turn back time with a limit of a few hours. This one could take him back a century if he wanted. He could go back to before Tom Riddle was born, maybe even prevent his parents from meeting.

But Harry wasn’t going to do that.

This was going to be a new beginning, a new world where even someone as cold-blooded as Tom Riddle deserved a chance. And if Riddle messed up that chance then Harry would make sure he would never discover Horcruxes to fall back on. 

There would be a catch, Dumbledore had warned him.

 _Consequences._ That was the word Dumbledore kept using the first time he showed the Time-Turner to him. If he used it, there could be consequences. If he used it, he could make things worse instead of better.

Consequences. _Anything_ could happen to Harry in the past. He might not even make it to the past. But if he did, there was an equal chance of him destroying everything as there was of him fixing everything.

But surely any other outcome would be better than the one he was living now? Surely nothing could be worse than this twisted reality? 

Dumbledore wouldn’t want this, he realised. He would want Harry to find the Horcruxes and destroy them one by one. 

_Not your choice,_ Harry thought. _Not anymore._

Suddenly remembering the incident in the cave, he pulled the locket out of his pocket. A fake. It was worthless and a complete waste of time. And yet it was the last memory he had of Dumbledore, the note signed by R.A.B sealed inside.

In one hand, the Time-Turner. In the other, the locket.

Harry thought of his lightning-bolt scar, the fear quivering in Sirius’ eyes as he disappeared through the veil, the memory of Dumbledore’s body falling from the Astronomy Tower, swallowed by shadow.

He studied the Time-Turner in his hand. It seemed to bare a curious inscription.

_I mark the years, every one, Nor have I yet outrun the Sun. My use and value, unto you, Are gauged by what you have to do._

Harry knew what he had to do. He knew his destination.

The year it all began. 

The year it would all end.

1943.

_  
_

__

****

* * *

  


Dumbledore’s office dissolved around Harry as the hourglass spun and ticked. Colours melted into each other. The walls disintegrated into dust. Under him, the floor gave way, tiles falling into a gaping void. Harry cried out as he fell, tumbling into the darkness. It swallowed him completely.

Then, all at once, everything snapped back into place. 

His heart gave a violent _lurch_ and his head spiralled in boiling pain. Disoriented, it took him a short moment for his mind to catch up to what he was seeing. He was still in Dumbledore’s office, still in the exact same spot as before. 

Harry frowned. 

“ _Merlin’s beard!_ ” a voice exclaimed from behind him and he jolted, whirling around. 

An elderly man sat gaping at him from behind Dumbledore’s desk. Only it wasn’t Dumbledore’s desk, Fawke’s perch and the bowl of sweets were gone, as were the scattered array of his belongings. 

The man leaned over and squinted at him. He was feeble-looking, face set with deep lines. He was almost completely bald except for the snow-white wisps of hair at the top of his head. 

“Goodness, you gave me quite the fright, young man. I didn’t even hear you come in. Why aren’t you enjoying the feast like the other students?”

Harry blinked, his head still spinning. “Oh, er—what?”

“The Sorting Ceremony of course. You’re not even in your uniform.”

Harry suddenly recognised him from the memory of Tom Riddle’s diary. Armando Dippet. The headmaster before Dumbledore. He hurriedly stuffed the pendant under his shirt.

He had made it. The Time-Turner had worked. 

“I—er… the truth is, um…” Harry floundered, making vague gestures with his hands. His ears were still ringing and his brain seemed to have short-circuited. 

Dippet stared at him, waiting.

“I was homeschooled,” he blurted. “Until now, and I wanted to attend Hogwarts for this year.”

“Ah, well, that seems fine.” Dippet relaxed back into his chair. “You received an acceptance letter when you were younger, didn’t you?”

Harry felt a hot rush of panic. “Oh, er, I sort of… didn’t?”

“You didn’t receive a letter?”

“I didn’t know how to get one—I’m sorry, I didn’t think this would be a problem… I guess I just decided to try and come here?”

Dippet considered him for a moment. Really considered him. Harry’s heart hammered in his chest. It was a rubbish cover story and Dippet was bound to see through him. His journey was about to end before it even began. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry said again, smiling weakly. “I really didn’t think this through, did I?”

“Hmm, I’m inclined to agree with you, young man,” Dippet said, filing through a stack of parchment until he found what looked like a registration form. He grabbed a quill and dipped it in his ink bottle. “Yes, well, I suppose we can allow a place for you. You wouldn’t be the first to attend Hogwarts with our initial acceptance letter. Full name, please.”

“Harry James P—” He cut himself off abruptly. There had to have been Potters attending Hogwarts in 1943. Harry couldn’t use that name. What if people started asking questions about his relations? It was too risky. But what other name could he use? 

An idea rose, burst like a firework.

“Harry James Evans,” Harry said.

A rush of unexpected guilt filled him to the brim as he watched as Dippet scrawl his new name onto the form, his eyes resting on _Evans_. It was a full-on, blatant lie and likely the first of many. He was here for a good reason, he reminded himself, the right reason.

Evans was his mother’s surname, and by extension, his as well. There was no reason to feel doubt or shame. Yet he did. 

Dippet piped up, “Now Mr Evans, you’ll have to give me a few more details about yourself and then we’ll get you Sorted.” 

He sent Harry a polite smile that did nothing to dispel the cramp in the pit of his stomach.

Harry answered the questions warily, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the surname on the form. Each letter felt fake and wrong, a mockery, jumping off the parchment and chanting, _Liar, liar, liar._

_  
_

__

****

* * *

  


Harry flicked a piece of dust off of his new robes. They were a stark reflection of the Hogwarts robes he wore not a day ago, except this uniform had an extra layer. Harry had to wear an ugly grey blazer under his robe and he _hated_ it. It was one layer too many, chunky and itchy around his neck and wrists. 

He stood facing the doors to the Great Hall where Dippet told him to wait. He felt restless listening to the muffled chatter of students behind the door. He had lied and told Dippet he was meant to be in sixth-year. There was no force in the world that could convince him to enter N.E.W.T year.

On the other side of the door, the noise level dimmed and Harry could vaguely hear Dippet’s loud drone before the grand doors finally swung open, exposing him to the Entrance Hall. 

The eyes of everyone in the entire school observed him as he walked, and despite being used to the attention, he felt suffocated. They weren’t glaring or gawking at him, or exchanging sceptical whispers. They were just… looking at him. Yet his stomach clenched as he walked and he lowered his head to avoid eye contact with anyone in the crowd. 

Dippet waited for him at the end of the hall with the Sorting Hat in hand and a three-legged stool by his side. Harry stopped in front of the stool.

“Evans, Harry,” Dippet said, his voice elderly and croaky, but the smile he sent Harry was sincere and it eased his nerves slightly. “Welcome to Hogwarts. Please take a seat and you will be Sorted.”

“Thank you, sir,” Harry said quietly.

He braced himself and sat down on the stool where he faced the hundreds of students watching him, all blank eyes and flat faces. Dippet let the hat drop onto his head and over his eyes. Harry welcomed the weight as it shielded his view of the hall. Just like before, he stared into blackness and waited.

“Ah,” the hat said, dismayed, not amused. “ _You._ ”

Harry’s breath hitched. Did the hat remember him? Could that even be possible?

“It was unwise of you to come here, Time-Traveller.”

Harry, stunned, asked, “Are you angry at me?”

“I have little respect for those who tamper with forces far greater than themselves. You had best hope you have the strength to face the consequences.”

There it was. That word again. _Consequences_. Like Harry cared about consequences. He would face any force to save his parents, Sirius, Dumbledore and Cedric. Whether it was an army of Dementors or Hungarian Horntails or even Voldemort himself, Harry would face it. 

“You have great courage,” the hat remarked. “But it would seem you have already made your choice—eh?”

Grudgingly, Harry had thought of Slytherin as the obvious choice, from there he could keep a close eye on Riddle and his progress with discovering Horcruxes and the Chamber of Secrets. On the other hand…

Slytherin would put him directly in the line of fire. He would be in the middle of the snake’s pit. Not to mention he had just chosen to use his mothers Muggle surname, which was a disaster waiting to happen if he picked Slytherin. He would also be putting his dad’s Cloak and map in jeopardy.

But Harry knew if he didn’t pick Slytherin he would be haunted with the paranoia of not knowing what Riddle was doing at all times, and the map only showed him Riddle’s location.

“I’m guessing you already know what I want?” Harry asked.

“You wish to be put into Slytherin this time, despite your personal preferences,” the hat noted. “Yet you hesitate.”

“I have to know… what would you choose without any requests?”

The hat seemed to ponder this. “It is a close call between Slytherin and Gryffindor, quite a close call indeed.”

Harry closed his eyes. At least he wasn’t entirely Slytherin. 

“Slytherins,” the hat said, “are cunning, resourceful, talented, and above all, determined. Are you not these things?”

“I suppose, but—”

“Then you will do well to associate yourself with these traits, rather than compare yourself to the malicious individuals who also bear them—no?”

“That makes sense.” Harry took a breath, then another. He wasn’t ready. He would never be ready for this. “All right.”

“Then it had better be… SLYTHERIN!”

Harry fully expected it, but the defining bellow of the Sorting Hat still completely derailed him. The hat was lifted from Harry’s head and with a heavy heart, he approached the Slytherin table. The Slytherins applauded him but none stood or cheered for him like the Gryffindors had. As he walked, he caught sight of a group of boys seated at the centre of the Slytherin table, most had their backs to Harry, but he recognised them. They were the same group of boys from Slughorn’s memory, in all of their imposing haughtiness.

Harry dropped his gaze so he wouldn’t give away his feelings in his expression. He picked a spot at the table as far away from the group of boys as he could manage and ignored the prying stares of his new fellow housemates. 

He glanced down and noticed his tie was now striped in silver and green, and his robe elegantly embroidered with the serpent crest. This was _wrong_. A black, stifling feeling twisted in his gut at how wrong this was. 

The unpleasant feeling told him he wouldn’t be fairing much better if he was Sorted into Gryffindor. The indescribable sensation rushed through him like a mini whirlwind. Something was off. And that something was _him_. It was as if he was disturbing an invisible force by existing. It was as if everyone around him was meant to be in this moment, they were solid and clear and real. All except him. He was an anomaly, dull and blurred around the edges. As if he didn’t belong here.

_Because I don’t belong here. I’m not even supposed to exist in this time._

For one infinitely long moment, Harry wondered if he had made a horrible mistake.

Someone took the seat directly across from him and his worries dissolved. A boy with silvery-blonde hair and a pale face peered at him, fidgeting nervously, and for a split second, Harry thought it had been Draco Malfoy. But of course, it wasn’t. The boy had wavy hair and rounder features, more of a soft similarity than a mirror image, but he must’ve been some kind of relative.

“Um, Harry Evans?” the boy asked shyly.

“That’s me,” Harry said slowly.

“I’m Malfoy, Abraxas Malfoy. It’s nice to meet you.” Malfoy offered his hand. 

Countless pairs of eyes around the table glued themselves to Harry as Malfoy waited for him to shake it. Unnerved, Harry took his hand.

“Nice to meet you too, Malfoy.” 

Malfoy quickly let him go, satisfied and slightly red, blotched around his cheeks. “Welcome to Slytherin.”

Harry nodded and an awkward pause followed, filled with the clatter of silverware. Malfoy’s eyes kept darting between Harry and something along the far side of the table, something Harry couldn't see. He looked reluctant. 

“Um, if you don’t mind I’d like to ask you something.”

Dread pooled in Harry’s stomach but he nodded anyway. 

“You’ve probably heard of my family before, the Malfoy family. Well, in Slytherin, families are… very important.” Malfoy’s hands twisted in his lap as he glanced across the table again. “We have a lot of important families here like… like the Blacks and Lestranges.”

The distance became thick and foggy between them and Harry felt sick as the names _Sirius Black_ and _Bellatrix Lestrange_ crossed his mind like a blinding thread of neon light.

Oblivious to his discomfort, Malfoy continued, “So, what I mean to ask you is… are you um, you know… pureblood?”

“No,” Harry said, his tongue thick in his mouth. “I’m not.”

A flurry of conflicting emotions graced Malfoy’s face but to Harry’s astonishment, Malfoy didn’t sneer or glare at him. Instead, he sent a troubled look across the table. Harry was tempted to turn around, but he had a suspicion he already knew who Malfoy was looking at. 

Harry took advantage of his hesitation. 

“Is that a problem?” he asked as politely as he could manage. 

“Oh, um,” Malfoy stammered, flustered. “You must be half-blood then?”

Harry tilted his head, feigning ignorance. “What if I’m not?”

Horror flashed behind Malfoy’s eyes so quickly Harry almost missed it. “I have to go,” he blurted, standing up so hastily he almost knocked over a bowl of carrots. “Lovely meeting you.”

Harry watched, amused and a little baffled, as Malfoy speed-walked away from him. It struck him, how unlike Draco Malfoy he was. Maybe politeness skipped a generation or two?

For the rest of the feast, Harry was left alone. Which wasn’t terrible, he needed time to anchor himself into this new reality. He glanced around the Great Hall. The floating candles flickered jovially above their heads, and beyond them, the bewitched ceiling. Harry stared up at it for a long moment, lost in the endless midnight-blue and the swirl of soft stars. He felt small. Faraway. 

Finally, Dippet stood and announced it was time for bed, but not until they sang Hogwart’s tune. It was as wild and lively as Harry remembered, but he felt distant from the excitement, just an observer among the participants.

A Slytherin girl about Harry’s age rose and rapped her fork against her goblet to hook the Slytherins’ attention. 

“First years first,” she ordered. “Follow us, prefects, to your dormitories.”

Harry waited and followed the remaining Slytherins down to the common room, the air growing thick and muggy as they entered the dungeons. Harry felt his throat closing up and recalled the dungeons were under the Black Lake. The temperature had dropped a few degrees as they descended staircase after staircase until they came to a damp stone wall, the hidden door already open for them.

The Slytherin common room was just cold and remote as Harry remembered. The dungeon was a sea of dull silver and deep green. Students swarmed around the intricately carved mantelpiece which housed a blazing fire. Harry looked up and saw green lamps suspended by chains that weren’t doing their jobs very well. The room was dark and stuffy and smelled of must and gravel. There were three enormous arched windows that looked directly into the lake, but the water was so murky that it was nothing but a shifting mass of green. 

It was exactly how Harry recognised it when he and Ron infiltrated the common room in their second year. Lavish, pristine and hollow. There was nothing warm or cosy about it. 

Most of the students were trailing into their dormitories, sleepy and with full bellies. A group of first-years lingered around the area, gawking at the extravagance of the room until the prefect girl from before tapped one on the shoulder and shooed them away. She stopped in front of the fireplace to speak to one of the older boys.

Harry could see her better in the firelight. She was willowy and thin-lipped with shoulder-length dark hair, styled and shiny. Her posture was stiff and her arms were crossed as she spoke to the boy, the other Slytherin prefect. 

The boy had his back to Harry, but he knew exactly who he was. He was tall and imposing, pale-faced with well-cut cheekbones and a head of jet-black hair neatly combed over to one side. He nodded in agreement to whatever the girl was telling him, holding her gaze intently.

Harry’s stomach coiled into knots. The boy was an immaculate reflection of the boy in the diary. The boy in Slughorn’s memory. 

The girl nodded once more, turning and waving goodbye to the boy. She glided passed Harry as she left, not even sparing him a glance as if he were a stain on the wall.

Then Tom Riddle turned around and looked at him.

Harry’s heart _plummeted_.

Riddle stared at him, curiosity etched into his handsome face. 

“Ah,” he said, as if someone had told him something fascinating, and he stalked towards Harry.

Harry took a step back but Riddle’s strides were too quick and before he knew it he was locked in a handshake with the prefect. 

“Harry Evans, was it?” Riddle asked, his voice velvety and cool.

“Y-yes,” Harry said, heat prickling at the back of his neck. A chilling numbness wrapped around Harry’s mind, clouding his thoughts in a deep fog. He gathered all of the courage he could muster and tried to break through the fear. He was _not_ going to be afraid of Tom Riddle. 

Harry almost raised his gaze to look at him in the eye but stopped himself. He couldn’t look at him in the eye, Harry realized. Voldemort was a Legilimens, possibly the most skilled to ever exist. It was likely Tom Riddle was just as skilled. He settled for staring at the polished prefect badge pinned to Riddle’s spotless robe instead. 

“Welcome to Slytherin. My name is Tom Riddle,” Riddle said, and even though Harry wasn’t looking at him in the eye, he felt the weight of Riddle’s sharp gaze boring into him. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Cold metal pressed against Harry's palm and he saw that Riddle was wearing the black and gold ring — the ring he had taken after he murdered his father. Harry released his hand. 

“Thank you,” he said, clearer this time.

“I can’t imagine how difficult it must be to move to a new school. You must be very brave.” The corner of Riddle’s mouth curved into a small smile. It was condescending, the type of smile Harry reserved for a young child. “I can assure you, your choice in Hogwarts won’t be disappointing.”

Harry swallowed thickly. “Thanks.”

“It’s quite easy to get lost. I’d be happy to show you around myself.” Riddle offered, still smiling. 

Harry opened his mouth to refuse but paused. He had to be very careful with anything he said to Riddle. Eye-contact or not, Riddle might be able to tell if he was lying.

“Actually,” Harry said, “I have a map.”

Riddle’s eyebrows arched. “Ah, of course. If there’s anything you need just ask me or any of the other prefects.” He tapped the silver pin on his robe with a long finger. 

“Er… yeah, all right.”

Harry tried a painful smile, but it crumbled off his face before he turned around, his legs as heavy as lead as he clambered towards the boys’ dormitories. He felt Riddle’s eyes on him even after he closed the door behind him. 

A shudder rippled through him. Everything Riddle had said sounded… practised. Rehearsed. The thought deeply unsettled him. 

At least Harry didn’t have to go anywhere near him for as long as he stayed. In fact, Harry could avoid him for the whole year if he wanted. Not that he was planning to stick around that long, but relief surged through him at the small comfort. 

Harry surveyed the room, not disappointed. There was a row of several four-poster beds, most of which had the surrounding curtains drawn. It seemed everyone was already asleep, Harry would have to be quiet. The bed closest to him and the door was empty and untouched. He hid the Invisibility Cloak and the Marauders Map underneath, hoping the Slytherins wouldn’t find him suspicious enough to go snooping. The Time-Turner he kept on, his only security in this new world. 

He lingered at the foot of his bed, clutching the pendant tightly in his fist. Dumbledore had given him a chance to fix everything, whether he intended to or not, and Harry would take that chance. This time, he would be the one to protect his loved ones who risked everything to protect him. This time, no one would die.

He climbed into bed, and the silence weighed heavy as he drifted to sleep. 

In his dreams, Harry explored the castle alone. Not a glimpse of student, teacher or even a ghost to be found as he wandered the hallways. He slipped through the shadowed corridors, climbed the steps of the Astronomy Tower and stood barefoot at the top. Below him, the wind howled and the darkness waited. 

“ _Be careful,_ ” a voice whispered in his ear. “ _Be very careful._ ”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! I want to give a massive thank you to all of you lovely readers! The response I got on my first chapter was absolutely phenomenal! It really makes my day seeing that I'm writing something people actually enjoy! Hope you enjoy this chapter :D
> 
> Any mistakes here are of my own doing.

Late into the evening, on the first day of September, Tom Riddle arrived in Hogwarts, blissfully happy as he passed through the doors of the Entrance Hall, striding up the marble staircase with his Inner Circle in tow.

There was a special place in Tom’s ravaged heart for the castle. It felt like the epicentre of magic itself, a place of security and infinite knowledge. He found comfort there, in the scent of melting candle wax and old parchment, in the mazes of shelves with countless books on every topic, every kind of magic. It had made perfect sense when he discovered his ancestor was Salazar Slytherin himself. Of course, he had felt he belonged there. Slytherin had built the castle for those as great as himself, after all. 

Tom sauntered into the Great Hall, and when he was met with a familiar blast of warmth he couldn’t prevent a tiny smile from curling his lips. 

This year, he was more anxious to return than ever. He was a sixth-year now. That meant access to more books, more dark magic, more power. His thirst for knowledge was never sated.

That wasn’t the only reason he was desperate to return.

Ever since August, he had been plagued by black, petrifying nightmares that jerked him awake, a scream rising from his lungs and catching in his throat, like it had been slit. The dreams were the same, a never-ending current of a single memory, yet it always felt as fresh as the first time. He hoped Hogwarts would grant him the rest he desired. 

Tom claimed his rightful seat at the Slytherin table, his peers following and seating themselves around him. He regarded them all for a moment, his little collection of pure-bloods.

There were six among Tom’s Inner Circle. Seventh years Sylas Nott and Tarius Rosier, both ambitious and intelligent and had come to him for a share of the glory. Then, were sixth years Adronis Lestrange, Callias Mulciber, Dorian Avery and Abraxas Malfoy. Lestrange, the most deranged and devoted of the six, obeyed him to an obsessive degree. He and Avery had a flair for sadistic, childish pranks. Mulciber was by far the most mature of the six, as a loner by nature he understood that Tom did not appreciate being bothered unless it was vital. There were others of course, who were loyal to Tom, most of them pure-blood families, but his Inner Circle were his secret select few he had personally chosen. 

Tom smoothed his fingers over the breast of his robe, feeling the stitches of the Slytherin emblem against his fingertips, and under it, his shiny new prefect badge. It was a symbol of his authority over not only the Slytherins but the other Houses as well, a hint of the leader he would inevitably become.

He didn’t pay much attention when the first-years shambled to the top of the Hall, lead by Dumbledore, looking like a complete eyesore in cherry red robes. He clapped when necessary to welcome the new Slytherins, otherwise tuning out the ridiculous Transfiguration Professor.

“Looks like Dippet’s late again,” Lestrange sneered from Tom’s right side.

“That’s the second year in a row he’s missed the Sorting,” Avery said with a snort. “Made us listen to Dumbledore of all people.”

“The old codger’s lost his head. I bet he’ll be retiring soon. Replaced by Dumbledore no doubt,” Lestrange muttered, drumming his fingers against his goblet impatiently. Tom twitched in annoyance. 

He much preferred the company of solitude rather than his peers, they were immature and irritating, driven by mundane and predictable desires. 

Dippet finally appeared at the head table, babbling an apology for keeping the hungry students from their meal.

“However,” Dippet said, holding up a placating hand at the ensuing groans. “Before we tuck in to our exquisite feast, we have one last Sorting to attend to.”

“Another one?” Avery complained. “Did a first-year get lost?”

“Didn’t you get lost in first-year?” Mulciber queried, smirking. “Took a wrong turn and ended up in the girl’s lavatory as I recall.”

“Shut up, Callias.”

The doors of the Great Hall swung open and Lestrange leaned over the table expectantly, almost tipping over his goblet. The boy that entered was ivory-skinned and slight in build, his unruly hair soot-black, his posture held stiff as he walked. Remarkably, his round, wire-rimmed glasses didn’t slip off his face despite how low he bowed his head. 

Intrigued, Tom peered closer at him, a sixth or seventh-year student, no doubt. 

“Not a first year,” Rosier said. “Must be a transfer student or something.”

“He looks nervous,” Abraxas Malfoy said quietly, the first full sentence he had spoken since they had arrived.

As the boy approached Dippet, something buzzed in Tom’s pocket and he shifted to reach in and grab his wand. He touched the handle and a sharp bolt of pain seared through his fingers, like an electric shock.

He jolted, drawing the concerned attention of Lestrange and Mulciber. Embarrassed, Tom ignored them and lifted his wand from his pocket. No static shock this time. But the core thrummed where Tom cradled the handle, radiating warmth into his palm. He couldn’t understand it. His wand had never failed or resisted him before—let alone shock him.

Later. He would deal with it later.

He looked up at the new student, just in time to see the Sorting Hat bellow, “SLYTHERIN!”

Around him, his peers erupted in applause along with the rest of the Slytherin table. Tom tucked his wand away and joined in, inwardly irked he had investigating to do with this arrival. He had to first determine whether the boy was pure-blood or not, and then if he would be a challenge or a natural leader. If he was either, then Tom would have to eliminate the threat and swiftly. 

“Harry Evans,” Mulciber recited from across Tom, mildly disgusted. “Not a pure-blood name.”

Tom watched as Harry Evans sat alone, choosing a place with the least amount of students surrounding him. His intentions were clear in Tom’s eyes, he wanted a barrier between himself and the Slytherins. Just what had he heard about the snake house? Evans' expression was hard to gauge, he was looking away, off in his own world. The other Slytherins didn’t seem to catch his open hostility, too absorbed in stuffing their faces since food had appeared on the empty plates.

“What do you think, Riddle?” Lestrange asked, following his gaze to Evans.

“I think he’s half-blood,” Tom remarked. Murmurs of agreement shadowed his words, as they always did. “Abraxas,” he called and Malfoy straightened immediately. “Go and find out.”

Malfoy blushed, his silver eyes flickering between Evans and Tom. “Oh, um, all right. Guess I’ll just…” 

He stood and reluctantly scuttled over to Evans, who hadn’t had a bite of anything yet.

“Scared little cockroach, isn’t he?” Lestrange snickered.

“Don’t mess with him,” Tom warned. “He’s useful.”

Tom had not picked Malfoy randomly. This would be the first of many tests he would put him through. 

Despite Malfoy’s wealthy and noble family background, Tom had reasons to doubt his capabilities. He showed contempt for Mudbloods, yet his nature was too meek and peaceful for Tom’s liking. This was enough to make Tom suspicious, so he had graciously given Malfoy the chance to prove himself, as he had done with the others.

Tom couldn’t hear Malfoy’s and Evans’ conversation, but he could read body language well enough to know it was already taking a bad turn. Evans had his shoulders squared, tense as a wound-up spring, and Malfoy lacked all subtlety, casting nervous glances in Tom’s direction. It was a miracle Evans didn’t realise to turn around and catch them watching.

“What an idiot,” Nott uttered coolly. Whether he was talking about Evans or Malfoy was unclear.

“Now, now,” Tom chided mockingly. “You all had your second chances. It’s only fair that Abraxas gets his as well.” 

“He’s coming back,” Nott observed.

“Retreating,” Rosier said. “Less backbone than a Puffskein, he has.”

Malfoy rushed back to his seat and they all leaned in, anxious to hear what he had learned, but he didn’t speak.

“Well?” Lestrange growled.

Malfoy’s head snapped up. “Oh, sorry. Well, he was very blunt, and um, I think he was suspicious of me. He’s a little intimidating actually, and he had this strange scar—”

“His blood status, Abraxas,” Tom said slowly, dragging each syllable through his teeth. 

“He… he didn’t actually tell me? But he insinuated he was… he was… a Mudblood.” Malfoy whispered the last word like it was the filthiest of curses. And although it was true, pure-bloods never spoke of it like that.

Tom released his frustrated breath through his nostrils. He should’ve picked someone else.

“He insinuated?” Mulciber repeated. Tom knew he was also dubious of Malfoy.

“Sort of.”

“You’re making me beg for answers,” Tom accused. “Just tell me.”

“Well, um, like I said, he didn’t actually tell me. I think maybe he knew what I was trying to do. And, uh, I think some people may have overheard.”

“He must be a Mudblood then,” Rosier said around a mouthful of potato.

“No.” Tom pressed his index finger to his ring, caressing the black stone in rhythmic circles. A new habit. “You heard Abraxas. Clearly, he’s aware of the importance of blood status, which is why he refrained from giving that information. Mudbloods are generally none the wiser of any…” His lips quirked up mockingly. “Prejudice.”

“So you’re saying?” Avery prompted.

“It seems he was trying to lead Abraxas to believe he’s a Mudblood,” Tom concluded. “So it’s likely he’s a blood-traitor or he simply doesn’t know who he’s dealing with.”

There was a ripple of murmurs about ‘intelligence’ and ‘cleverness’ among his peers and Tom sat back, satisfied. 

When Tom finally met Evans himself in the common room, he didn’t miss the flash of recognition that crossed his face before they shook hands. Oddly, Tom felt he was faintly familiar. Not that he knew him, but that he should’ve known him somehow. He couldn’t comprehend why Malfoy found him intimidating. Evans wouldn’t even look him in the eye. Tom did catch a glimpse of the scar though, it peered out at him from behind windswept hair. 

He didn’t strike Tom as someone who belonged in Slytherin. He didn’t seem to belong anywhere.

Tom didn’t dwell on it. This was not the year to be investigating awkward new students and hexing irritating Gryffindors. He had bigger things planned for this year. Much bigger. 

Somewhere, in a place Tom never intended to travel, Salazar Slytherin would be watching him in awe and envy, as he completed his noble and forgotten work.

_  
_

__

****

* * *

  


Waking up in the Slytherin dormitories was an incredibly bizarre experience for Harry. Sunlight spilled through the arched windows, veiled and greyed by the cloudy lake water. The other sixth year boys, some of which Harry recognised from Riddle’s gang, assessed him warily as if he was some exotic creature, waiting for him to do something extraordinary. He was surprised to see Abraxas Malfoy was in his year. He kept stealing glances at Harry sheepishly as if wanting to tell him something.

The bed beside him remained empty, and there was no sign of Riddle.

Breakfast was even more peculiar. Harry was genuinely surprised that none of the Slytherins approached him at all. He had expected… well, he didn’t know what he expected. To be ambushed with questions at every turn, perhaps. He didn’t think he’d be receiving emotionless stares everywhere he looked. 

While Harry sipped idly at his tea, half-wondering what on earth possessed him to go through with using the Time-Turner, and how on earth was he going to pull off his mission, he was cornered by none other than a fifty years younger Horace Slughorn. 

Harry almost thought he was hallucinating when he saw him breezing by the table, chattering to the older Slytherin students. He was considerably less large than his future self but still bloated all around and where he should have been bald was a mop of gingery-blonde, straw-dry hair.

“Oho!” Slughorn cried excitedly when his round, gooseberry eyes found Harry’s face. “You must be Harry Evans.”

Harry realised he was gaping and put down his teacup. “Er, yes, sir. It’s nice to meet you.”

Slughorn beamed, his walrus-like moustache curling upwards. “Professor Horace Slughorn, Potions Master and proud Head of Slytherin House.” He did a small courtesy. “May I ask which school you’ve transferred from? You don’t look much like a Drumstrang or Beauxbatons student.”

“Oh, I didn’t transfer. I was homeschooled, but I wanted to study for my exams in Hogwarts.”

“Well, you couldn’t have picked a better school if I do say so myself. It’s always a pleasure to have new students.”

“I’m lucky to be here.”

“Lucky indeed.” Slughorn winked. “I heard all about how you barged into Headmaster Dippet’s office and personally demanded he allow you to attend. Quite a bold move of you, wasn’t it?”

“I didn’t _barge_ in—”

“Bold, but admirable.” Slughorn went on, ignoring his protest. “Dippet seemed to be impressed by your ambition. Ah, yes, ambition. That’s the trait of a true Slytherin.” He gestured admirably to the Slytherin banner hanging above their heads. 

When Harry remained silent, Slughorn looked at him, finally registering his discomfort.

“Ah, well, we mustn’t dawdle too long,” he said. “Let’s get your subjects sorted. Now, how did you fare in your O.W.Ls?”

In the end, Harry took the exact same subjects as before. He debated on dropping Potions but Slughorn, as harmless as he was, would eventually be the one to tell Tom Riddle about the Horcruxes. Harry needed to keep a close eye on him.

Slughorn, being his nosey self, kept trying to leech more information out of him. It wasn’t until another student called him away, that he finally stopped pestering him, and Harry was left alone again.

_  
_

__

****

* * *

  


Harry rushed into the Potions classroom ten minutes late, out of breath and an apology on the tip of his tongue. Slughorn didn’t even notice, busy fawning over Riddle who sat in the front row with his cronies. The air was laced with the seductive aroma of Amortentia and the stench of cauldron smoke, stinging Harry’s nostrils and fogging up his glasses.

He would have naturally opted for sitting alone, but he saw a short, dazed-looking Slytherin girl sitting by herself and, feeling brave, he walked over and took the seat beside her. She was combing her fingers through her mane of curly red hair as she daydreamed, a doe-eyed expression plastered on her face.

Harry shucked off his bag, stooping low to take out his quill and ink bottle. As he looked back up there were eyes on him again. The Slytherins were watching him, faces lined with displeasure. He glimpsed at the girl beside him.

She was looking at him too, her expression guarded. 

“Sorry,” he said hastily and stuck out his hand. “I’m Harry Evans.”

“Oh,” she said, accepting his hand. “Yes, I’ve heard of you. You’re Slytherin’s new Muggle-born.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “Er, _no_. I’m—no.”

“Oh, really? Sorry, I just heard… nevermind.”

“Is that what they’re all saying about me?”

Her answering smile was sympathetic. “Don’t worry about it too much, it’s all just speculation. So if you’re not Muggle-born…”

“I’m half-blood.”

“Ah, well, you still have a chance to clear that up.”

Harry shrugged, indifferent. “Let them think what they want.”

She smirked. “I’m Lyra Lynn, by the way.”

“Do you know why they’re looking at us?”

“It’s either because they think you’re Muggle-born, or because they don’t like that you’re sitting next to me.” Lyra’s tone was breezy, but she was watching him out of the corner of her eye for his reaction. 

She was Muggle-born. It didn’t need to be said, the hint was enough for Harry. He felt a wave of pity for her. Hermione had it difficult enough being Muggle-born in Gryffindor. To be Muggle-born and a Slytherin must have been awful for Lyra. 

Slughorn finally wrenched himself away from Riddle and began his lesson. Harry noticed he was teaching the same theory from his first class with him at the start of sixth-year. He had the same potions set up and bubbling on his desk, Veritaserum, Polyjuice, Liquid Luck and Amortentia. This time, he explained the effects of the potions himself rather than asking anyone. 

When Slughorn got to Amortentia, Harry snuck a glance at Riddle, wondering if the mention of a love potion would irk him, considering he was likely conceived because of one. But Riddle’s face remained politely impassive, his fingers steepled under his chin, his attention focused solely on Slughorn. If his feelings had darkened, he was hiding them immaculately. Harry had to give him that.

As Slughorn explained the effects of the powerful love potion, some of the girls exchanged sly smiles and coy giggles. This did not go missed by Slughorn, who waggled his finger disapprovingly at the class.

“Oh, now, make no mistake,” he said. “It is arguably the most dangerous potion in this room. Though most of you may not believe it, you are all young and ignorant to the power of obsessive love. Still, that might be for the best.”

“Dangerous?” repeated a Slytherin boy, disbelieving. 

“Yes, well,” Slughorn began, sounding hesitant. He fiddled awkwardly with the lid of the cauldron. “There’s a theory about love potions, you see. It hasn’t been proven yet, but, well… some speculate that those who are conceived from a loveless union will never be capable of love themselves.”

Harry did a double-take, shocked that Slughorn had mentioned the dark theory. His gaze shot over to Riddle to spot some sign of discomfort. 

Nothing. Not even a twitch.

“A love potion cannot replicate true love,” Slughorn continued. “It’s quite misleading actually, isn’t it? Therefore, anyone conceived under its effects cannot feel love.” He paused, face scrunching, disturbed. He looked up and quickly added, “So the theory goes.”

Lyra snorted.

“You don’t think it’s true?” Harry asked her quietly.

“I think it’s a load of rubbish. A loveless union doesn’t result in a loveless child. If that were true, there would be so many people out there who can’t feel love.” She twirled a long curl between her fingers, staring thoughtfully into space. “Think about it. There are unplanned pregnancies all the time, fathers who leave and mothers who aren’t maternal and vice versa.”

“Sounds like you feel very strongly about it.”

She instantly reddened. “I just think it’s a stupid theory.”

“So,” Slughorn said briskly, anxious to move on from the topic of love potions. “We’d best crack on! If you’ll turn to page ten of Advanced Potion Making, you’ll find the first potion we’re tackling this year. Brewing the Draught of Living Death is no easy task. You’re not O.W.L students anymore and while striving for perfection is unreasonable, I expect you to do your best. Off you go!”

Harry knew the instructions of Advanced Potion Making were flawed, and only vaguely remembered Snape’s scribbled directions, but Liquid Luck was not a reward this time, so he couldn’t really care less if his cauldron exploded. He still whispered some of Snape’s instructions he recalled to Lyra as they worked away.

“Marvelous! Simply Marvelous!” Slughorn gushed over Riddle’s cauldron. Harry didn’t catch the prefect’s reply. 

As Slughorn jabbered on to Riddle, the boy beside him kept giving them side glances. His sharp features twisted into an icy glower, his narrow face framed by a few dangling strands of dark hair.

“Who’s that?” Harry whispered to Lyra.

Lyra looked up and as soon as she locked eyes with the boy, he turned away. 

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Mulciber. He’s a bully, and a real nasty one too. They all are, those pure-bloods. You might not have noticed yet, but there’s a big group of them here in Slytherin.”

Harry had noticed. Of course he did, though he wasn’t going to tell her that. 

“They like to play these cruel pranks on Muggle-borns,” Lyra said. “Lestrange especially, now that boy is mental. Mulciber though, he’s one of the worst.”

“Has he ever picked on you?”

“He tries,” she said grimly. 

“Oh dear,” Slughorn said to a distressed Ravenclaw girl at the table across from Riddle. Her cauldron was melting, overflowing with a violet ooze.

“Professor?” Riddle’s voice, his tone sweeter than treacle tart as he addressed Slughorn. “Class has ended two minutes ago. Should we preserve our potions?”

Slughorn’s brow creased with worried lines. “Do we not have a double?”

“Unfortunately not, sir.”

Slughorn mumbled something about ridiculous timetables, then raised his voice again. “Right then everyone, preserve your potions and we’ll continue in the next class.”

“Uh, Harry?” Lyra flushed scarlet. “Could you maybe preserve my potion for me, please?”

“Yeah, all right.” With a wave of his wand, Harry cast a preserving charm on her potion, then his as well.

“Thanks.”

At the corner of his eye, he saw Mulciber lean over and mutter something to a sandy-haired Slytherin boy. The two looked over at Harry and Lyra and sniggered.

Lyra was turned away, packing her things, when Harry noticed her wand had been on her desk in front of her for the entire class.

_  
_

__

****

* * *

  


When Harry entered the Great Hall with Lyra, the difference in Slytherin house’s attitude towards him was immediately apparent. He was fixed with burning, resentful stares instead of sharp and curious ones. He didn’t miss how the Slytherins edged away from them as they sat down to eat.

Even so, Harry felt far less intimidated in Lyra’s presence. She had an airy way about her, a familiar aura he couldn’t quite place.

They were having a meaningless, enthusiastic conversation about Quidditch when the Slytherin prefect girl marched by with an armful of books, her expression pinched. She stopped beside a group of girls, who were poorly concealing their worry behind polite smiles before she slammed her books on the table aggressively.

Harry winced.

Lyra didn’t even blink, hiding her amused smile behind her teacup. She caught Harry’s confusion and nodded in the girl’s direction.

“That’s Walburga Black,” she said. 

Harry’s heart seized up.

“You won’t have to worry about her. She doesn’t speak to Muggle-borns.”

Harry fixed his gaze on Walburga Black with disbelief. _Sirius’ mother._ If she was here, Sirius’ father must be too. 

The girls surrounding Walburga attempted comforting her, but she flicked her hand at them irritably, as if trying to swat flies. 

There was nothing of Sirius in his mother. Even her movements were stiff as opposed to Sirius’ canine grace, her shoulders were sharp, her bones bird-like. 

“She’s just annoyed she didn’t get Head Girl this year,” Lyra chimed, stirring her third spoon of sugar into her tea. “If I were a prefect I wouldn’t complain, their bathrooms are supposed to be amazing. Hey, are you all right? You look a little pale.”

“M’fine.” Harry started piling his plate with sausages. “Just hungry.”

Lyra saw something behind him and went completely rigid, her expression changing from open to flat in a fraction of a second. Harry swivelled around and saw Abraxas Malfoy approaching them. Their eyes met and Malfoy froze as if caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to do. He seemed about ready to turn back but decided to come over to them anyway, giving Harry a half-hearted wave.

“Hi, Harry.”

“Hey, Malfoy.”

“I, uh, wanted to apologise for leaving so quickly yesterday. That was really rude of me.”

“It’s… all right.”

The following silence was painfully awkward. Someone’s escaped chocolate frog hopped across the table and disappeared into a bowl of crumpets.

Malfoy faltered, then said, “Um, so I heard Silvanus Kettleburn said a heard of unicorns wandered outside the Forbidden Forest this morning. Do you want to see them? Maybe we can talk for a bit… if that um, suits you.”

Harry glanced at Lyra. Her face was remarkably blank, but he spotted a cool gleam of scepticism in her eyes.

“That sounds like a good idea,” he said. “Would you like to come with us, Lyra?

The corner of her mouth tugged into a smirk. “Sure, why not?”

_  
_

__

****

* * *

  


Harry, Lyra and Malfoy trekked the twisting pebble path that snaked up to the edge of the Forbidden Forest, stones crunching under their shoes. Harry tactfully positioned himself between his two companions, as they eyed each other not-so-subtly, one cynical, the other timid. He wasn’t convinced Malfoy was a threat yet, but he could be a small part of a potentially enormous picture.

On the verge of the forest, a rickety makeshift pen that Harry guessed was transfigured, housed three fully grown unicorns. They grazed peacefully on the dewy grass, their tails swishing lazily behind them. As they shifted, their sleek coats glistened like crystals of freshly fallen snow in the sunlight.

Two Hufflepuff boys opened the fence gate and drew nearer to the unicorns. One was a tall and slender boy with shaggy, raven hair and a pleasant, fine-boned face. He waved a moss-covered branch around, giggling and threatening to poke the unicorn with it. The other was a shorter boy with floppy, silver hair that hung down over his big, chestnut eyes. His hands fluttered pathetically around the dark-haired boy, failing to restrain him. It only succeeded in making him laugh harder. 

“So which one is Silvanus?” Harry asked. He barely remembered Dumbledore mentioning him as the Care of Magical Creatures Professor before Hagrid.

“Silvanus is the shorter one,” Lyra answered. “That idiot with the stick is Caelan Malthace.”

Harry thought he detected a hint of venom as she uttered the dark-haired boy’s name, but he wasn’t sure. 

The three of them shuffled closer, watching the two Hufflepuffs fuss over the unicorns. One sniffed Caelan Malthace’s hand and turned away, uninterested. Silvanus fished in his bag for something and pulled out a crinkled book that had clearly been read and re-read many times. 

“Don’t you think it’s dangerous to leave the gate open like that?” Malfoy said to Harry in a hushed voice.

“I don’t think unicorns are dangerous, Malfoy.”

Caelan joined Silvanus, the two perched on the fence as Silvanus began to read. 

“A unicorn generally avoids human contact,” he said. “It is more likely to allow a witch to approach it than a wizard, and is so fleet of foot it is very difficult to capture.”

“Wasn’t so difficult for us,” Caelan remarked.

“We haven’t captured them, they’re free to leave if they like. Besides, they wouldn’t be here if they didn’t trust us.”

“Trust us? Hah! Unicorns are stupid.”

“I wonder why they wandered out so far,” Silvanus mused. “They never leave the forest.”

“They really are pretty, aren’t they?” Malfoy commented, and despite Harry’s frightening experience with unicorns he had to agree. 

A crowd gathered around, rapidly swelling as more people beckoned their friends to come and ogle. Harry’s stomach tightened at the sight of Riddle and his gang of Slytherin pure-blood boys ambling down the path, Walburga Black accompanying them.

A shiver prickled up Harry’s spine at the thought that they were following him. He inched towards the pen, trying to distract himself from the paranoia.

As soon as he took another step towards the gate something unusual happened—

All at once all of the unicorns lifted their heads and looked at Harry. 

Their muscles immediately stiffened and their tails hung limp. 

Harry froze, pierced by the three pairs of eyes, eyes as round as marbles, glossy and beetle-black.

The growing crowd didn’t seem to notice the shift in the atmosphere, but Silvanus did. He gripped the sleeve of Caelan’s robe, who sent him a confused scowl. 

The unicorns stared at Harry, stared at him with what mirrored black hatred. 

Harry took a step back. It was the wrong move.

All three unicorns charged, barrelling past the gate with their heads lowered, horns glinting, as sharp as daggers. Their legs blurred with impossible speed. 

Reacting on instinct, Harry grabbed fistfuls of Lyra’s and Malfoy’s robes with each hand and shoved them away as hard as he could. 

The unicorns were right in front of him when he twisted at the last second, their horns missing his face by a hair’s breadth. He tumbled hard onto the damp grass. 

Shrieks tore from the crowd when the unicorns kept sprinting, about to plough through anyone in their way.

“ _Immobulus_ ,” a voice split the screams and an ice-blue flash blinded Harry.

He blinked rapidly, blotches of colour obscuring his vision, and he realised his glasses had slipped off his face. He groped blindly for them, but a boy-shaped blob reached down to grab them and offered his hand to him. Harry took back his glasses and the world came into focus. Caelan Malthace hovered over him, hand still outstretched. Harry took it and Caelan pulled him up. 

“Thanks,” Harry managed, pressing a hand to his chest in an attempt to regulate his pounding heart. 

“No problem. You’ve got some nifty reflexes, hah?” Caelan smiled broadly, a crooked tooth poking out of the corner of his mouth. 

“What happened?”

Caelan jerked his head towards the crowd. “He happened.”

Tom Riddle stood in the centre of the horde, brow furrowed in determination. His arm was outstretched, his wand pointed directly at the unicorns, completely immobilised in front of him, their legs still bent in mid-sprint. He flicked his wand upward and the unicorns, still frozen, began to float. Shadows of the creatures passed over the students, drawing more shrieks and causing some to duck reflexively as Riddle levitated the beasts into the pen. 

Silvanus was slow to realise everyone was waiting for him to close the gate and scrambled to his feet. As soon as the latch clicked shut, the silent spell broke and the crowd swarmed Riddle, cheering and praising him. Harry too, was captivated at Riddle’s casual ease of non-verbal magic. 

If Riddle felt any smugness or pride from the reaction, he did well to hide it. He was scanning the crowd, face infuriatingly concerned as if checking for injured students. 

Walburga Black, strangely, was examining Harry closely, as if unconcerned by the incident.

“Is anyone hurt?” Riddle asked loudly and Harry inwardly seethed. He knew damn well no one was hurt. It was all an act, pretending he actually cared. 

Silvanus trudged up to Caelan’s side, riffling through his book frantically as if he would find a secret hidden between the pages.

Caelen let out a low whistle. “Looks like we might be in trouble for this one.”

“I don’t understand,” Silvanus gasped. “Unicorns never attack, not even if they’re provoked. They just run away. They could’ve killed someone.”

“Shame.” Caelan grinned wickedly. “We’d be the first to see it happen.”

“Oh, you don’t mean that,” Silvanus said, upset.

“No,” Caelan agreed, “I don’t.”

Lyra padded over to them, her face contorted in distraught as she swiped her mud-caked robes. She must’ve fallen when Harry pushed her. 

“Thanks for saving me,” she said breathlessly.

“Here, let me.” Harry pulled out his wand and pointed it at her. “ _Scourgify_.” The muck on her hands and clothes disappeared.

Walburga was still watching him, the knowing smirk on her face unwavering.

“I’m in so much trouble,” Silvanus moaned.

Caelan patted him on the back. “I’d take the fall for you buddy, but… y’know…”

Lyra pinned Silvanus with a frown. “You couldn’t have known they would attack, right?”

“I didn’t know—I swear I didn’t! We did nothing that would provoke them.”

A chilling thought reared its ugly head in Harry’s mind. Maybe Silvanus didn’t do anything, but what if someone else had? What if someone provoked the unicorns to attack? Or controlled them, forcing them to charge out? 

He spied the crowd, searching to see if anyone else was holding their wand other than Riddle, but found no one of interest. Then, he noticed something. 

“Where’s Malfoy?” he asked. 

“Let him off,” Lyra dismissed. “He probably only wanted to suss you out anyway. The unicorns scared him away.”

“Relax, mate,” Caelan said to Silvanus. “We didn’t come out the worst of it. I mean, new boy here almost got throttled.” He playfully slapped Harry between the shoulder blades, jerking him out of his thoughts. 

Riddle raised his voice again. “Could someone please fetch a Professor?”

Walburga leaned towards Riddle and whispered something to him. His midnight eyes swept across the crowd of frightened, awe-struck students and rested on Harry.

Harry averted his gaze. “I’m getting out of here,” he told Lyra. “Nice to meet you two,” he added to Caelan and Silvanus. 

He didn’t hear any replies, already dashing back up the path. It was his first full day in the past and unicorns attempted to attack him, in the presence of Riddle. That was a bad coincidence. 

It was far sooner than he expected, but perhaps it was time to start plotting.

_  
_

__

****

* * *

  


Under the deepening black of the night sky, while all of the residents of Hogwarts castle slumbered, one boy remained awake.

Tom Riddle sat in front of the roaring fire, watching the flames flicker, licking the stone and knawing at the logs. Cinders spun towards his face, red-hot, but he didn’t move away. While his body was in the Slytherin common room, his mind was muddled and tormented, in another time. 

In his mind’s eye, he was back in Little Hangleton on a crisp August night. With Morfin Gaunt’s wand in hand, casting the Killing Curse was alarmingly easy, even to Tom. He uttered two words, no deafening noise, no dastardly explosion, just two simple words and his grandparents went down, fizzling out like a candlewick. 

When he turned his uncle’s wand on his father, he had faltered. 

For a millisecond, he thought he had been staring at his reflection, but Tom’s expression wasn’t that horrified. They were the same, he realised. Tom had his father’s face, his hair, his hands. The dark eyes that stared back at him, blown wide in terror, were his own. 

And Tom, despite his fury, rising, bubbling, boiling in his blood, couldn’t do it. 

This was the man that abandoned him and let him rot in a grimy orphanage. A Muggle. A filthy, powerless Muggle. Tom hated him with a rage he didn’t even think he could feel. 

They looked so much alike. Too much alike that he was hesitating. Tom would be seeing his own death. Killing him meant Tom would be watching himself die. 

“Son,” his father breathed. His last word. 

Like a coward, Tom closed his eyes.

The killing light flashed behind his eyelids.

His father’s body hit the floor with a low, anti-climactic _thud_. 

It wasn’t anything Tom expected it to be. His father’s face didn’t twist or contort freakishly in death like he would’ve imagined. He watched in horrified fascination as his father’s features slackened, skin fading to wax-white as his eyes became vacant.

It was as if Tom could see the man’s soul separating from his body, his essence draining away. Where did he go? Did he leave this world entirely? Or was his father’s soul still with him? 

Tom’s fingers quivered and his legs trembled. The world was spinning too fast, whirring around him at light-speed. He sank down on the cold hardwood floor, hands raking through his hair, nails digging into his scalp. 

His father’s glazed eyes looked through him, through the walls and through the world all together.

Would this be him one day? If it was this easy to kill someone, what was to prevent anyone from killing him?

He stared at his father, though all he could see was himself, his own dead eyes and sallow face.

This would not be him. Could not be him.

Something clicked then. An explosive revelation surged through him. And everything made sense.

Everything in his life had lead up to this moment—the endless isolation he had suffered, the wild joy he felt when controlling Billy Stubbs’ rabbit, making it squeal in agony and hanging it from the rafters, torturing the snotty brats Dennis Bishop and Amy Benson, traumatising them into permanent silence, all the trophies he kept, his dark victories, all the festering rage and pain he inflicted on the orphans, the raw happiness when he discovered he was a wizard, it all flooded him, forming a hurricane of blistering emotion. 

Tom would not die, he decided. Why should he have to? He was too special. He was above death. Magic could accomplish anything, and if he couldn’t find a way, he would create one himself. Tom had changed, that day. He was reborn a new person, a person destined to defy death.

Lord Voldemort.

Unkillable. Immortal. 

The fire sparked and crackled, lighting Tom Riddle’s blank, soulless eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Firstly, I'm so sorry for the delay of this chapter. I was drowning in assignments throughout the semester, but I kept on planning for this fic! I've been very insecure about my writing lately and I've been debating whether or not to post this chapter and today I thought, feck it! Why not? It's kinda long but I didn't want to split it in half. If there are big breaks between me posting I promise I'm still working on the story in general. I have at least 70% of Chapter 4 written so that should be out soon. Thank you for reading! :D  
> Any mistakes are my own.

“Where did you go?”

Harry popped his head up from his cauldron and blinked slowly. His lungs burned from the fumes of the Potions classroom and his glasses were fogging up again.

“What?”

“Where did you go?” Lyra repeated as she chopped her Valerian roots. “Yesterday.”

“Oh, nowhere. Just wanted to get away I suppose.”

The unicorn incident was the talk of the entire school. The Slytherins had slyly used the opportunity to cast Riddle as the hero of the story, and Harry had already heard many misshaped versions of the tale. Some said it was a hundred unicorns Riddle had immobilised, some even substituted unicorns for werewolves in the retelling. Harry knew himself what had happened. The ‘why’ remained elusive, dangling just out of his reach. He knew it occupied Lyra’s mind too.

“What do you think, Lyra?” he wondered aloud.

“I think I need to slice them smaller.”

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Harry said. “The unicorn incident.”

She looked up at him then, eyes so bright and blue behind the puffs of cauldron smoke.

“Not now,” she mouthed and he nodded, understanding.

As Lyra returned to cutting her roots, Harry’s eyes strayed to the front row, where Riddle worked alone at his and Mulciber’s table. The contrast between him and the rest of the class was ridiculous. Everyone was sweating over their cauldrons in their thick, itchy blazers and now had identical hairstyles of puffballs. Yet Riddle remained neat and unruffled among the sea of flushed faces and frizzed up hair, entirely unaffected.

Lyra gave a frustrated grunt and Harry turned back to see her scowling over her cauldron.

“I don’t understand. It should be turning a shade of pale lilac by now, not— _ow!_ ”

She had accidentally sliced her finger, and fresh droplets of blood budded from the cut. Grimacing, she pulled an embroidered handkerchief from her pocket and wrapped it around her hand.

“Are you all right?” Harry asked.

“Stings a bit, but it’s just a little blood.”

Someone tutted aloud from the other side of the table.

Harry squinted at Mulciber through a waft of bluish steam. He had his arms crossed over his chest, his nose scrunched in disgust and his lips twisted into a cruel smile.

“Clumsy as always Lynn,” Mulciber goaded. “Spilling your filthy blood everywhere.”

Lyra didn’t miss a beat. She whirled and brandished the bloody knife in his face.

“Why don’t I cut you open too, Mulciber?” she threatened. “Let’s see how different our blood really is.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. 

Mulciber’s eyes flared, his mouth raw-looking as he fixed her with a blazing glare. A tiger preying on a kitten. Though Lyra seemed to be a kitten with a backbone made of steel. She stood her ground.

“I’m not here to see you dismember yourself, Mudblood,” Mulciber said at last, directing his stony gaze on Harry.

“I’m floored,” Lyra said flatly. She looked at Harry and her eyes sharpened, filling with the realization of the implication of Mulciber’s words. “Want to know his blood status, do you? Want to know if he’s a Muggle-born like me?”

Mulciber ignored her, never breaking Harry’s gaze.

“Well?” he demanded. “Are you?”

“And what if I am?” Harry challenged.

Mulciber scoffed, his attention straying to something behind him. “So you are one. Then we have no business with you lot, do we Abraxas?”

 _Abraxas?_ Harry wheeled around and sure enough, Malfoy was standing there watching the whole thing. Malfoy looked away, his face flaming in shame.

“Callias.” A clear voice called from the top of the room, sweet-sounding like a piano, somehow both soft and menacing.

A voice that made Harry’s skin prickle in dread.

Beside him, Lyra stiffened.

The gloating sneer slipped off Mulciber’s face abruptly, like a child who had been told playtime was over. He looked over his shoulder at Riddle.

“Come,” Riddle said and Mulciber obeyed without question, drifting stiffly passed the other students to return to his place.

Harry felt Riddle’s cold, curious gaze rake over his face for a moment before turning to Malfoy with an expressionless look, then back to his undoubtedly flawless potion.

He didn’t even blink at Lyra.

“Um, I’ll just—” Malfoy didn’t even finish his sentence before he turned on his heel and scurried back to his own desk.

Lyra shot Harry a grim look and, despite everything, he grinned at her.

“What’s with that look?” she asked, befuddled.

“Nothing, it’s just… now I know why you were put in Slytherin.”

A nervous laugh bubbled out of her, but Harry wasn’t convinced of her contentment. For the rest of the class, she barely prevented herself from making huge errors in her Draught. She stuttered in her movements and her voice wobbled when she spoke. She had been shaken by Mulciber but determined not to show it.

They got through the lesson with passable Draughts just before Slughorn clapped his hands, indicating class was over.

“Are you coming to lunch, Harry?” she asked as she gathered her things by hand, forgetting her magic completely.

Harry tapped his wand against the desk and her belongings promptly stacked themselves and zipped into her bag, making her jump and then smile to herself at her skittishness.

“Not this time,” he answered. “I have somewhere to be.”

_  
_

__

****

* * *

  


Tom did not go to lunch after Potions. Instead, he tailed Harry Evans into the library.

Tom snagged an empty table for himself so he could observe the boy without suspicion. He slowly took out his books, studying Evans closely as he wandered past the shelves. When he stopped in front of the Restricted Section, Tom’s interest was hooked and reeled in.

Evans peered over the rope preventing anyone from entering without permission from a teacher. He stared for a moment, looking for something before shrugging to himself, as if dissatisfied with what he was seeing. Then he turned back and strode over to the door. Tom adverted his gaze to his potions book as Evans passed his table.

That was... odd.

If it had been anyone else, Tom would have instantly dismissed the behaviour as a juvenile curiosity or a genuine interest in the Dark Arts. But Harry Evans wasn’t just anyone else.

Something about him was _off_ and Tom could sense it, like staring into a lake and knowing a bottomless darkness lay beneath the rippling reflection of the surface. It was frustrating he couldn’t prove it. All he had was intuition.

He was torn from his thoughts by the sound of something clunky dropping onto the empty table space next to him. Walburga Black pulled out the chair beside him with a harsh scrape, smiling widely.

“I hope you don’t mind Tom,” Walburga said as she sat. “I have a little catching up to do.”

“I don’t mind at all,” Tom lied smoothly.

“I saw the new boy on the way in. Strange one, isn’t he?”

“Strange,” Tom echoed softly.

“Quiet. A little like you. Abraxas seems to like him though.”

Under the table, Walburga’s leg brushed against Tom’s, and repulsion crawled in his stomach. He moved his leg away, pretending to stretch it while he glanced at her face, trying to read if the bold move was intentional or not. She had no right to act so vulgar, especially considering she was promised to her third-year cousin, Orion Black.

Walburga merely tucked a stray strand of her hair behind her ear and focused on writing her notes, oblivious to Tom’s disgust.

“I see Adronis is enjoying being back,” she said conversationally, still not looking up.

“Indeed he is,” Tom agreed, twitching irritably at the sound of his lieutenant’s name.

Out of his Inner Circle, known to themselves as the Knights of Walpurgis, Tom valued the loyalty of two above the others. One was Callias Mulciber — perceptive, fearless and stone-cold. The other was Adronis Lestrange, his most feared Knight. Lestrange was disturbed, violent, and what most would agree, monstrous. But to Tom, he was obedient and eager to learn, to flourish in Dark magic.

It was in Tom’s Inner Circle, where Lestrange met Avery, much less ruthless in nature, but no less disturbed. Following their reign of terror, Tom had made two rules for them. The first was to inform him of their new targets. The second was to report the results of their tricks back to him, so Tom could cover for them if necessary.

Only on a rare occasion would Tom be directly involved with the two thugs and demand they target a person of personal interest. In his years of devotion, Lestrange had always obeyed his rules. Until now.

It had only been two days and Lestrange had already set fire to a fifth-year Ravenclaw’s bag, used the Pimple Jinx on a Gryffindor prefect, Confunded a first-year and convinced them their Muggle-studies class was in the Forbidden Forest, and unleashed countless stinging hexes on multiple students. The results were far from a pretty sight. Lestrange’s hexes were so brutal his victims looked as if they had been flogged with a hot poker.

Lestrange was feared. Tom was respected. He knew he would lose that respect if he didn’t reign in Lestrange and swiftly. He looked like a master who couldn’t control his rabid mutt. Perhaps Tom needed to shorten the leash…

“Tom.” Walburga simpered at him. “What happened yesterday, with the unicorns...”

Tom gave her his full attention then.

“What do you think happened?” she queried.

Tom’s brow furrowed. _What_ indeed. The most obvious answer was they had been provoked, or frightened somehow. The other option was they were bewitched by someone who wanted to cause serious harm.

The latter option vexed Tom, because it had most definitely not been him or his Slytherins who had been the caster, and if someone were to wreak havoc, it would be him and no one else.

“I’m not quite certain, Walburga. What do you think?” he asked.

Walburga’s face lit up, predictably delighted he was asking her opinion. “A curse, no doubt. Some think it was the new Mudblood who did it.”

“Mudblood? He told you his blood status?”

“Oh, no, Abelle Greengrass told me. She overheard him and Abraxas speak at the welcoming feast, and she said it was obvious he’s a Mudblood.” Her quill paused over the parchment. “Either that or he’s a blood-traitor.” She scribbled out something she had been writing, then started over. “Abraxas was spending quite a bit of time with him, don’t you think? He was with Evans and Lynn when the unicorns attacked.”

Walburga was right. Evans had been there, and he had fled the scene almost immediately after Tom apprehended the situation.

It hardly mattered either way, because if it was Evans who had made the unicorns attack, Tom would crush him as easily as an insect under his shoe. And soon, he would have a weapon far greater than a few measly beasts.

Whatever secrets Evans kept, Tom would draw them out and watch them unravel like loose thread before his eyes.

All he needed was a little eye-contact.

_  
_

__

****

* * *

  


After returning from the library, Harry had to wolf down his lunch to make it on time to Herbology. His mind was whirring with possibilities and ideas. In Slughorn’s memory, Tom Riddle said he had learned of the Horcruxes from the Restricted Section. Harry held on to the tiny bit of hope that perhaps if he found and destroyed the book, Voldemort would never become immortal. But he had forgotten the enormous amount of books that were there. So he had to scratch that plan for now.

Lyra caught him on the way to class, and they chatted briefly about subjects. When Lyra asked him about how he learned magic before Hogwarts, Harry spun his home school story, and couldn’t quash the spark of guilt as Lyra nodded along and bought his lie without question.

They joined the students lined up outside the greenhouses, waiting for Professor Beery to arrive. While they waited, Harry’s gaze was drawn to a tall, lithe Hufflepuff boy who was leaning heedlessly against the wall, his black and yellow scarf wrapped snugly around his neck. Harry knew him from the other day but couldn’t remember his name.

One of the boys, a Gryffindor, stepped out of the line and jabbed a finger at Harry.

“It’s him!” the Gryffindor declared loudly. “He’s the one that made the unicorns attack!”

The line of students all ended their conversations to stop and stare at the commotion. Quiet murmurs of agreement and suspicion quickly followed as they took in Harry's appearance. 

“Hang on a minute,” Harry protested reflexively, his panic rising. 

“Don’t be daft,” Lyra snapped over the rising noises of speculation. “He couldn’t have done it. I was there with him.”

But she couldn’t be heard over the growing ragged crows of ‘That’s the boy!’ and ‘I saw him!’ and ‘He was there!”

“Get him, Malcolm!” one of the crowd cheered and Harry glared in their direction.

The crowd’s steady flow of encouragement seemed to give Malcolm the strength to draw his wand and point it at Harry.

“Don’t even think about it,” warned the tall Hufflepuff boy.

Malcolm opened his mouth to hex Harry, but froze, gaping like a fish out of water for a few seconds, before slowly pivoting around.

The other boy inclined his head and grinned at him, all teeth and no warmth.

Malcolm stammered, “I-I-I didn’t see you there, Malthace. I wasn’t going to—I was just defending—”

“Yeah? Well _I-I-I_ don’t give a toss. ‘Cause it looked to me like you were about to hex a defenceless person.”

“He deserves it! He—”

The boy came off the wall.

“All right! All right! I’m sorry!” Malcolm wailed, cowering and shielding his face as the boy sauntered right up to him. The other students instantly simmered down and watched them both with bated breath. 

But instead of hitting him, the boy patted Malcolm’s cheek and laughed. “Good talk. Now piss off.”

The boy caught Harry staring and flashed a lopsided, predatory grin, revealing a crooked canine, and Harry finally remembered his name was Caelan Malthace.

Caelan approached them, wearing a far friendlier expression than a few moments ago. 

“I didn’t know you did Herbology, Caelan,” Lyra said, her tone uncharacteristically clipped.

“Well you learn something new every day,” Caelan said dismissively. “I don’t think I’ve introduced myself,” he said to Harry, and extended a slender hand. Harry took it and offered a grateful smile. 

“Caelan Malthace, fellow survivor of the terrible unicorn incident of Forty-Three.” Caelan spoke in a low voice like they were sharing a secret, and the hand clasped around Harry’s was flecked with dried blood, knuckles stained purple with bruises.

Harry sensed danger in Caelan’s playfulness, but he couldn’t help but laugh with him anyway.

“Nice to meet you, Caelan.”

Lyra spoke up, the note of steel in her voice caught Harry off guard as she cut in, “I think Silvanus is looking for you, Caelan.”

“Hah?” Caelan glanced over his shoulder at Silvanus, who had arrived by the greenhouse door, struggling to hold up a mountain of books with his matchstick arms. “Ah, better help him.”

“He seems… nice,” Harry said as he watched Caelan take the tower of books from Silvanus with comical ease.

Lyra nodded. “He’s not.”

“He—what?”

“He _seems_ all right, but Malthace is a bully. There was this awful incident last year with a Ravenclaw Muggle-born, Myrtle Warren.” She shook her head as if trying to rid herself of the memory. “He was nearly expelled, and in my opinion, he should’ve been.”

“Expelled? Why wasn’t he?”

“I heard one of the Professors stood up for him, but he’s pureblood so it easily could’ve been some connection he had.”

“What exactly did he do?” Harry asked, but his question was muffled by the clacking sound of approaching footsteps. Professor Beery had arrived.

They all piled into the greenhouse, everyone lining up by the long table, much like a dining table. Harry ended up wedged awkwardly in between Lyra and Caelan.

They were dealing with severing the deadly vines of Venomous Tentaculas. Harry and Lyra had to borrow spare dragon-hide gloves and aprons from Beery, while everyone else used their own. The gloves were a size too big for Harry and Lyra had to wrap the string of her apron twice around her waist, but otherwise, they were fine.

Half-way through the lesson, Harry turned to see how Caelan was doing, only to find he was staring at Harry’s forehead.

“That’s a cool scar,” he said.

Harry’s hand immediately went to his forehead in a self-conscious way he wasn’t used to since he was younger.

“Relax, I wasn’t joking.”

“Sorry, I don’t like it very much I suppose.”

“My mate Fiachra has scars all over his face, but I’ve never seen one like yours before. How did—?”

“Mr Malthace,” Beery interrupted, “do I have to move you to the front of the class again?”

“Nah.”

“What was that?”

“No, Professor.”

Caelan opened his mouth to ask Harry again, but a black, vine-like tongue whipped out of his plant’s gaping mouth and wrapped around his forearm. Instead of trying to free himself, Caelan grabbed the sticky tongue and yanked and yanked, until the vine came free with a grisly, fleshy snap.

He smiled fiendishly as the barbed tongue uncurled from him and writhed helplessly on the table.

“ _Mr Malthace!_ ”

“What? Technically I did it right.”

Harry deflated in relief. He was sick of talking about his parent’s murder back in his time. It was nice for people to look and him and see him, rather than his mother’s eyes and his father’s face. 

When the anxiety-inducing lesson with the Venomous Tentaculas ended, Harry prepared himself for another lonely period in the Great Hall—he knew Lyra had Divination now.

“Where are you going?” Caelan asked him.

“Anywhere that’s not the Slytherin common room,” Harry replied gloomily.

“Oh, just come to Divination with us,” Caelan said breezily, nodding to Lyra, who paused mid-folding her apron.

“Er, _no_.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t just go to a class I didn’t sign up for. And I hate Divination.”

Caelan shrugged. “Well, if you’d rather be all on your lonesome then. Suit yourself.”

Harry considered them both. Caelan was watching him hopefully and Lyra was giving him a wide-eyed stare that said, _Please don’t leave me alone with him._

Harry looked between them and felt his resilience melt like candle wax.

“ _Fine._ ”

Oh, if Hermione could see him now, how disappointed she would be.

_  
_

__

****

* * *

  


When Harry arrived at the Divination classroom he paused in the doorway and his senses were immediately assaulted by an onslaught of colour and smell. Everything was so _red_. The curtains, the carpet, the tablecloths. Even the little table lamps were draped in crimson silk. Over the mantelpiece, a copper kettle puffed out a sickeningly sweet-scented perfume that scorched Harry’s nostrils.

But what had really made him halt was the sight of Tom Riddle and his gang, lounging at one of the tables, and he felt he would rather be in the path of the rampaging unicorns again than enter the room.

There were three boys surrounding Riddle. Mulciber he recognised, and the sandy-haired boy from potions, but the third boy was unknown to him. They were all relatively decent-looking, but the contrast to their leader did them no favours—Riddle seemed to become more and more handsome the longer Harry stared at him.

Harry shuddered. He couldn’t pin down if it was the harsh grey of their blazers, the sharp edge to their knowing smirks or the fact Harry knew they would be Death Eaters one day, that made them so intimidating.

“What’s the matter?” Caelan asked from behind him.

“Nothing,” Harry said quickly. “Just remembered how much I hate Divination.”

Caelan leaned down and lowered his chin onto Harry’s shoulder, and Harry realised too late he was attempting to follow his gaze. When Caelan caught sight of Riddle, he grinned.

“Ah _hah_ ,” he breathed with a silvery laugh. Then, in a lower voice, “I don’t like him either, but don’t let him stop you.”

“You don’t like Tom Riddle, Harry?” Lyra asked, standing on the tips of her toes to peer over Harry’s other shoulder.

“Er—”

“A lot of girls think he’s good-looking,” Caelan interrupted, much to Harry’s relief.

“You don’t?” Lyra questioned.

“I’m not most girls, sweetie,” Caelan said, batting his eyelashes at her.

Lyra actually laughed, the melodic sound floated out of her and danced around them.

“Who are they anyway? The ones with him.” Harry nodded to the three boys accompanying Riddle.

“Ah ah ah, Harry,” Caelan tutted, waggling a lean forefinger in Harry’s face. “I will tell you. B _u_ t only if you come with us.”

Harry didn’t even have time to decide, the sound of footsteps and chatter were rapidly approaching behind them and Caelan’s hand was encircling his wrist. Before he knew it he was being dragged to a table in the corner and sat between Lyra and Caelan, not a stone’s throw away from his mortal enemy.

“All right, I’m here, now tell me,” Harry said to Caelan.

Caelan laced his fingers together and stretched them out in front of him until the bones popped.

“Obviously you know Riddle,” he began. “Slytherin golden boy and a prodigy at every subject. Strange thing is, no one really knows anything about him. It’s all rumours and gossip.”

Lyra rolled her eyes. “ _I_ could’ve told you that.”

“There is some speculation though,” Caelan said, turning to look at Lyra straight in the eye. “That Riddle is an orphan.”

Lyra adverted her gaze.

“Then there’s Callias Mulciber.”

“We know him,” Harry said. “He’s a bully.”

Caelan’s eyebrows arched. “Mulciber? Uh, not really. He’s one of the quiet ones. He’s not really a tormenter.”

“He is to me,” Lyra murmured sullenly.

Caelan’s fixed her with a deadpan stare. “Boo hoo hoo. Just hex the skin off his scrawny bones already. Whatever.”

Lyra gaped in shock and offence. Her cheeks tinged pink.

“And the others?” Harry prompted quickly, anxious to soothe ruffled feathers.

Caelan continued, “The blonde-haired creep is Dorian Avery. I heard Carpe caught him more than once lurking in the girl’s bathroom.”

Looking at Avery, Harry could imagine it. He was talking with the other boy Harry didn’t know, but at the same time he was scanning the room with a sleazy gleam in his eye, scavenging like a coyote.

“Creepy McMentalface over there is Adronis Lestrange.” Caelan gestured to the last one—a smirking boy with soot-rimmed eyes. Lestrange jerked his head from left to right as he spoke, his full attention given to Avery. For a reason Harry couldn’t explain, Lestrange presence unnerved him almost as much as Riddle’s did. He had a deadly aura about him, like being in the same room as a werewolf. “Stay away from that one. He’s gone off the rails this year. Avery is his little evil companion.”

“Used to be,” Lyra corrected. “Avery spends most of his time hounding after Lucretia Black nowadays, so I heard.”

The classroom door opened again, its hinges squeaking, and a decrepit old man bustled into the room. He was tall and thin with a beard that rivalled Dumbledore’s in length—at least, the Dumbledore of Harry’s time. A tray with a set of china teacups rattled from where they hovered behind him.

“Good afternoon everyone. Welcome back to Hogwarts,” he chimed with a twirl of his wand in their general direction. The teacups unstacked themselves and flew around the room to each table.

“We’ll have a nice, easy class today,” he announced, “before we get into the more difficult material.”

“That’s Professor Alaric. He barely gets anything right,” Lyra whispered to Harry.

“You were born in late June, were you not?” Professor Alaric asked Avery, who gave an affirmative grunt in return. “Ah yes, as I suspected, you’re a Cancer.”

“Hah. Got that right,” Caelan muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

Alaric nattered on to Avery about the importance of staircases in his future, all while the three boys exchanged mocking half-grins right under his nose. Riddle simply looked bored.

Harry felt a spark on anger of the Professor’s behalf. Why bother taking the class if they weren’t going to take it seriously? He was actually relieved when Alaric turned to his table and lifted Caelan’s teacup to eye-level.

“Hm, what do I see in you, Mr Malthace? Ah yes, you’re an Aries if I recall from last year. Hot-tempered, easily bored—oh, and a lover of attention, no doubt.”

Caelan’s eyes narrowed. “Are you calling me a—?”

Lyra swiftly kicked his leg under the table and he didn’t finish his sentence.

“You haven’t met Harry yet, Professor,” Lyra rushed to distract him from Caelan’s glower. “He’s new.”

Alaric turned to smile at Harry and froze.

Harry offered a weak smile back and tried his best not to squirm uncomfortably while looking into Alaric’s milky eyes.

Alaric stared back at him, unblinking and still smiling.

Harry waited for him to say something, but Alaric just smiled.

And smiled.

And smiled.

The silence stretched on for so long it drew the attention of every student in the class.

“Er—Professor?” Harry asked timidly.

It was then Alaric fell forward and collapsed head-first into the table. Harry, Lyra and Caelan all jumped to their feet, sensing the table was about to topple. Alaric’s weight was too much for the small wooden thing and it went down with him. He rolled over at an awkward angle and Harry could see he was trembling violently and foaming at the mouth.

Caelan clapped his hand over his mouth and turned away.

Every student in the classroom watched in horrified shock for a few seconds, still registering what they were looking at. The only ones who remained calm were Riddle and his gang.

“Oh dear,” Riddle drawled with barely concealed boredom. He stared down at a spasming Alaric from where he was sitting with his chin cradled in his palm. “Adronis, do you know any healing spells?”

Lestrange just laughed.

Harry’s head snapped up to stare at Riddle, and then to the rest of his stunned classmates. Had no one heard his blatant dismissal of a professor that was in serious danger? How could he be so openly cruel?

Alaric was rapidly turning purple. He clawed at his throat as if to fight off an invisible grip that was squeezing the life out of him.

Lyra snapped out of her trance.

“Harry, we’ve got to do something!” she urged, shaking his arm. “He can’t breathe!”

Harry tore out of his shock and plunged his hand in his robes for his wand and pointed it at Alaric.

“ _Anapneo!_ ” he yelled and Alaric inhaled great lungfuls of precious air.

The Professor blinked away his oncoming tears and his awareness of his surroundings seemed to return.

“Well done, Evans,” Riddle said. “I’d say that earned twenty points for Slytherin, wouldn’t you agree, Callias?”

Mulciber merely smirked.

A few heads turned in Riddle’s direction and his languid expression immediately changed to one of utmost concern.

“We need to take him to the Hospital Wing,” Riddle said in the cool, commanding tone of a strong leader. Harry wasn’t fooled. Riddle couldn’t have seemed less interested in helping the Professor—he was preoccupied with burning holes into the side of Harry’s head with his eyes.

“Danette, can you manage?” Riddle addressed the question to a skinny Ravenclaw girl, whose watery eyes had never left his face since he had spoken.

She blushed and bobbed her head yes and kneeled at Alaric’s side. “Um, Professor? Can you walk?”

“We need to go,” Lyra whispered in Harry’s ear.

Riddle saw that too.

The two rushed to the door, Harry stopping for a split second to seize Caelan by the collar and drag him along with them.

Once the three of them were alone out in the quiet of the corridor, Caelan doubled over and erupted in howling, hysterical laughter that reverberated along the walls.

“Seriously?” Lyra cried. “You think that was funny?”

Caelan didn’t answer. Or couldn’t answer as he leaned against the wall, shoulders shaking in his laughing fit.

Harry stared at him, incredulous, until he finally recovered, pressing a cool hand to his reddened cheek.

“Oh, come _on_ ,” Caelan defended. “It was funny.”

“It was awful,” Lyra snapped. “He wasn’t breathing.”

Caelan’s teeth sank into his lower lip, it looked to Harry as if he was hiding a smile.

“Hey, I just laugh at the wrong things. It’s a nervous reaction.”

Lyra didn’t look convinced at all and Harry thought it was a lame excuse himself but he didn’t want to waste time by talking about it.

“I get it,” Harry said, placating.

The door swung open again and the three of them allowed Danette and a green-faced Professor Alaric to pass by.

Lyra rounded on Harry. “What happened?” she demanded.

“I don’t know! He just… fell.”

“Yes, but Harry… he was looking at you.”

“You think I did this?” Harry asked, horrified.

“No, of course not! I just… who else could it be?”

“Maybe no one did it,” Caelan suggested. “Maybe the old codger is off his…” He paused and frowned at something in the distance.

“It looked like a curse to me,” Lyra said. “Caelan, did you—are you even listening to me?”

Caelan ignored her, stalked past them and vanished around the corner.

“Lyra, I swear I didn’t do anything,” Harry promised desperately. “You were right next to me. You would’ve seen if I—”

“Shh!” She suddenly darted forward and clamped her hand over his mouth. “Do you hear that?”

Caelan’s pleasant voice crept around the corner, silky smooth, and deepened in anger.

“—following us? You little creep.”

They exchanged wide-eyed glances before dashing around the corner to catch Caelan pinning Malfoy against the wall, who looked as if he wanted the floor to open up under him and swallow him whole.

“Malfoy?” Harry questioned. “What are you doing here?”

“Spying,” Caelan snarled.

“N-No!” Malfoy moaned, struck still like a rabbit in the eyes of a wolf. “I wasn’t spying! I was just looking for you, Harry. Please let me go!”

“Let him go,” Harry ordered.

Caelan obeyed.

Malfoy looked like he could’ve collapsed with relief. He straightened his tie and turned to Harry.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I’ve been trying to talk to you all day.”

“So you were following us,” Lyra said dryly.

“I’m sorry!” Malfoy squeaked again. “You’re not exactly… approachable.”

Harry tried very hard to sound nice when he asked, “What do you want?”

“I wanted to thank you.”

“What? Why?”

“For yesterday. You saved me from those unicorns.” Malfoy shivered. “Horrible beasts.”

“Don’t worry about it."

“And, um, I was wondering… if you would be interested in trying out for Quidditch with me?”

“Quidditch,” Harry said slowly. “For the Slytherin team.”

Malfoy nodded meekly.

“I’ll think about it.”

“I appreciate it." Malfoy said, shuffling backwards. “I’ve got to get to Charms now so, um, bye.”

Malfoy was almost half-way down the corridor before Harry could blink. And if it wasn’t so pathetic, he would be impressed. 

Lyra heaved an exhausted sigh. “I think I’ll retire for this evening. See you at Defence tomorrow, Harry.”

Harry watched her go, his mind heavy with the events of the day. 

“Do you play Quidditch, Caelan?” he asked distractedly.

“Nah, not anymore.” When Caelan saw Harry was waiting for more explanation, he added, “I was banned.”

“...Of course you were.”

_  
_

__

****

* * *

  


Tom skipped breakfast the next morning to arrive at Defence early. As expected, he was the first student there. Professor Merrythought was perched at her desk, flicking through papers, when he walked through the door.

“Punctual as always Riddle,” Merrythought remarked when she saw him. “Congratulations on your O.W.L results. You’ve earned some the highest marks in school history if I’m correct? Your Outstanding in Defence was quite the pleasantry. An expected one, might I add.”

“All thanks to you, Professor,” Tom said sweetly as he claimed his seat.

“No need for modesty,” Merrythought asserted, “if the rest of the class had a pinch of your talent, perhaps they would have been able for the practicals. Unfortunately, we have a lot of revision to do.”

Worse and worse. It seemed Defence wasn’t going to offer anything intellectually challenging for Tom.

One by one, the students trickled in. Tom watched as Harry Evans struck up a conversation with the beast lover, Silvanus Kettleburn, and wondered if he had overestimated him. The idea of him bewitching the unicorns seemed far-fetched now. But the incident yesterday, with Alaric…

Merrythought rose to her feet and clapped. “Good morning everyone and welcome back. It has come to my attention that, while your O.W.L scores, in theory, were satisfactory, many of you have slipped in practical spell-casting. Particularly in the Impediment Jinx and the Patronus Charm.” She clicked her fingers and a piece of chalk lifted from her desk and scrawled the words ‘Revision’ on the blackboard. “Now improving the Impediment Jinx should be a simple fix for most of you. However, you’ll need to put in no small amount of practice… if we all hope to produce a corporeal Patronus by the end of the year.”

The class rippled with uncertainty and disbelief. Merrythought read it instantly.

“But Professor we’ll never be able to cast a corporeal Patronus by the end of the term,” whined a Gryffindor girl.

“Not with that attitude you won’t. Now, does anyone remember the...” Merrythought’s sharp eyes fell on Evans, who was leaning over to whisper something to Kettleburn, and her question trailed off.

“Evans,” she barked and Evans jumped a mile high.

Merrythought stared down at him from behind her pointy nose. “I take it since you’ve opted to converse with Mr Kettleburn rather than pay attention to my lesson, you’ve somehow mastered the Patronus charm within your limited years of homeschooling—eh?”

Evans ducked his head in submission, and Tom inwardly sneered. How did Malfoy think of this... _boy_ as intimidating? Evans didn’t have an assertive bone in his body.

No... no, he had been wrong. Evans was not shying away. It was barely there but Tom saw it—a ghost of a secret smile tugging at his lips.

Evans mumbled a response too quiet for Tom to hear, but after seeing Merrythought’s thin eyebrows arch to her hairline, it must’ve been something quite shocking.

“We’ll see about that, Evans. Top of the class.”

“What?”

“Top of the class, I said, and I do not like repeating myself.” Evans went to protest again and Merrythought silenced him with the raise of her hand. “If you are as competent in casting the Patronus charm as you claim, you will demonstrate it to my class, and I will allow your interruption to slide. Fair?”

Evans grumbled an agreement and reluctantly slid out of his seat.

As he moved to the front of the classroom, Tom glanced and his little misfit gang. Lynn worried a thumbnail between her teeth. Malthace leaned over his desk excitedly. Kettleburn’s stunned stare never left Evans’ face.

Did they actually expect him to succeed? Fools. Yet Tom couldn’t fight the tensing of his muscles in anticipation as he watched Evans take a deep breath and motion with his wand.

“ _Expecto_ ,” he breathed, the corner of his mouth lifting with a sad smile, “ _Patronum!_ ”

A brilliant silver light erupted from his wand, illuminating the entire classroom like a bolt of lightning. Something enormous was forming from the shapeless silver mist as it soared—no, _charged_ between the desks. Tom’s eyes scrunched as he tried to stare at the blinding creature, as bright and as radiant as moonlight. It was... a stag.

Tom straightened in astonishment, almost not believing what he was seeing. But the proof was right in front of him, in silver hooves and powerful antlers. The stag turned and galloped back to Evans, but then swerved mid-journey to circle Lynn’s and Malthace’s desk. Malthace laughed and reached out as if to pat the silver animal, but his fingers wisped through its body as if it were as untouchable as smoke.

The stag cantered back to Evans where it came to a slow and then a stop. They seemed to stare into each other’s eyes for a moment before the stag lowered its head into an unmistakable bow.

Evans was glowing with a distant warmth. He was somewhere else in his mind. A memory. Tom could almost read it glimmering on his face.

Someone coughed and Evans was torn from his warm memory about the same time the stag dissolved into a silver wisp, and then vanished. Tom saw the glow fade from his face as if just realising he was in a classroom, pinned with the eyes of every student around him.

All was silent for just a beat too long. Merrythought cleared her throat in a manner that was obviously faked.

“An outstanding display, Evans,” she admitted with genuine warmth. “I’ll overlook your interruption for today.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Evans replied hollowly, already moving back to his seat.

Merrythought turned back to the class, breaking out of her stunned state.

“Well?” she barked. “Why aren’t you all taking notes?”

An immediate rustle of movement followed, accompanied by the crinkle of parchment and the tinkling of ink pots.

As Tom scribbled down notes, a warning light flashed in the back of his mind.

He had made a mistake. He had dismissed Evans far too quickly. Allowed him too far out of his reach. He knew there was something about Evans, but _this?_ Such power, so immense and magnificent at his fingertips. Tom wanted it. Tom would harness this power, make it his own. Yes, Tom would take Harry Evans as his strongest pawn.

But that was easier said than done.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I'm proud to say I didn't take an eternity to get this chapter out. I have a newfound respect for authors who post update after update after update, how they manage that is beyond me.  
> I want to say a big thank you to everyone who commented on the last chapter. The response was so heartwarming and every time I felt my motivation dwindling, I read and re-read them, and they propelled me to continue writing!  
> This chapter is 8k which I did not expect, I've been trying to keep chapters under 5k or 6k at the most, but it seems that's gone out the window now, haha!  
> I'll be reading over this and the last few chapters to see if I can improve on anything, but it'll just be some minor edits.  
> I hope you enjoy this chapter!  
> Any mistakes are my own.

A week had passed, a full wild week of chaos, since Harry had thrown himself back in time.

At the dead of night, Harry found himself climbing the steps spiralling up the Astronomy Tower. When he reached the top, the depthless night sky unfolded before him, pale stars chalked over by weighty grey clouds. The sliver of the crescent moon hung high, reflected in the mirror-still surface of the Black Lake. On the horizon, Harry could see the charcoal outline of the Forbidden Forest as it loomed, barely visible in the rich midnight glow.

In Harry’s mind, the tower had changed since the night Dumbledore was murdered, regardless of how many years he had travelled back. It used to be a place of childish innocence, just another part of Hogwarts that was special, just another part of his true home. Now, the tallest tower of Hogwarts overshadowed him tauntingly, and Harry often felt like it was glaring at him when he caught sight of it.

Since his arrival in the past, it wasn’t Harry’s first time to go there. It was where he had gone that day—the day of the unicorn incident, and ever since then, he kept returning.

At times, Harry felt like he was drawn back to it, back to his time, where Dumbledore was gone. He could still see him disappear beyond the darkness below the tower. The image was so vivid, so fresh, like it had been branded into his memory. Harry was so sickened by it that he skipped Transfiguration on his first week. He wasn’t ready to see Dumbledore again. Not yet. Not after losing him so suddenly.

A distant thunderstorm rumbled over the horizon, lumbering closer and Harry clutched his cloak tighter around him. 

Harry tried not to think of Ron and Hermione, and their constant, amusing bickering that poorly concealed their mutual attraction. He tried not to think of Fred and George’s mischievous pranks, or Neville’s clumsiness and unbreakable courage, or Luna’s odd, mystical ways. He hadn’t lost them. He would see them again, the pendant around his neck guaranteed it. He was doing this for them, to save them all from a bleak, petrifying fate.

As he filed through the names in his head, he always came to the same one in the end. Harry thought of Tom Riddle. A string of memories floated to the forefront of his mind, Riddle in Slughorn’s office, eager for the secret to immortality, his finely carved features contorted into something dark and bestial. Harry remembered Riddle’s fearlessness in the face of a knife-wielding Morfin Gaunt, and his waxy face and bloody eyes, thick with rage as Dumbledore denied him the job he so desperately desired. What was Tom Riddle doing now? Was he wide awake like Harry? Was he slumbering peacefully?

Deep sleep felt like a distant memory to Harry. At night, he would wake at any disturbance, like the sound of rustling sheets when someone turned over in bed, or when a shadow flickered across the windows to the lake. He would lay awake and think about what had happened with the unicorns and the poor Divination Professor and he would wonder, not for the first time, if they were connected to him somehow, to the feeling of him not belonging. Even if he did manage to fall asleep, his nightmares were constant, and he saw Voldemort rising, surrounded by tombstones, Snape’s sneering, sallow face rearing out of the shadows, Sirius drifting away, cloaked in a misty veil. 

There were times when Harry didn’t feel real at all. There were times when the world wavered under him, blurring into shapeless colour. When the lively buzzing of the Great Hall would fade and distort like Harry was being pulled underwater and everyone else was on the surface. Sometimes, it felt like he would fall through the floor at any moment, through the earth and into nothing. 

Those nights, he snuck out under the safety of his father’s cloak and climbed the steps of the Astronomy Tower, dressed only in his night things, so he could feel the snap and sting of the autumn wind, so he could prove to himself he wasn’t this transparent, blurry thing. This night was no different.

Above him, the dark clouds broke and unleashed a downpour of thick raindrops. They hammered against the pointed roof of the tower, like icy-cold bullets.

Harry stretched out his hand over the railing, and shivered at the sharp sting of the droplets, biting his skin and chilling him to his bones.

_I am real. I am here._

_  
_

__

****

* * *

  


The following morning, Harry sat by the fire in the common room with the Marauders Map unfolded on his lap, scanning the names while waiting for Malfoy to join him for Quidditch try-outs together. It was difficult to remember what it had been like to be passionate about Quidditch, but for the first time in over a week, Harry actually felt excited, even if he would be playing for Slytherin.

At last, Malfoy appeared in the doorway wearing a full set of brand-new looking Quidditch gear, and Harry’s stomach tightened involuntarily. With the deep-green cape and jersey, Malfoy couldn’t have looked closer to his future grandson.

“Er—” Harry glanced down at himself. He was dressed in his usual oversized jeans, sweatshirt and his old trainers. The only clothes he brought were the ones on him when he arrived in the past. “Can I still try out like this?”

Malfoy brushed aside the strands of silvery hair veiling his face and he stared at Harry for a worryingly long moment. “Obviously not. We’re representing all of Slytherin.”

“...And?” 

“ _Merlin_ , Harry. You can’t show up to try-outs in... in... _rags_. Come with me, you can borrow my old gear.”

Harry folded up the map and followed Malfoy back into the boy’s dormitories. There were others getting ready, wriggling into the uniform and squeezing their feet into boots, but they paid Harry and Malfoy no mind. Malfoy knelt and rummaged around in his trunk and pulled out a set of perfectly crisp Quidditch uniform, like it had never been worn. He passed them to Harry hurriedly. 

“We’re about the same size, so they should be a decent fit.”

Harry ran his fingers along the silky fabric and smiled. He truly missed Quidditch. “Thanks.” 

Harry climbed onto his bed and closed the drapes to pull on the uniform. Once shielded from view, he tapped his wand against the map and muttered, “Mischief managed.”

He hid his wand and the map under his pillow. He didn’t want to risk either getting damaged on the pitch. When he finished dressing himself, he drew back his curtains to test how well he could walk in the uniform. Malfoy was waiting for him at the foot of his bed with a pair of boots and fingerless gloves nestled under his arm.

“You look much better,” he said brightly, and handed him the boots and gloves. “What position will you go for?”

“Seeker,” Harry answered as he fumbled with the gloves. “I’ve always been Seeker.”

Malfoy gave a small, sheepish grin. “I suppose we’ll be competing then.”

Harry looked up at him and couldn’t help smiling back. It seemed Draco Malfoy and his grandfather had something in common after all. 

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Malfoy said suddenly. “I let Fredrick borrow my Self-Spelling Quill... um, you know, Fredrick Parkinson?” he elaborated at Harry’s visible confusion. “I’m just going to go over to him. You can, um, wait here.”

Harry pulled on his boots and waited, facing the door as if to give Malfoy privacy. While it did sting, he understood why Malfoy didn’t want to be with him around the other purebloods, with the possibility of him being a Muggle-born in their eyes. It was nice though, how Malfoy genuinely seemed to want to be friends with him despite not knowing his blood status, while Draco had only wanted to befriend him for his fame.

Harry wasn’t waiting long before he heard footsteps approaching him from behind. “You ready, Malfoy?” he asked. 

He turned his head to look back, just in time to see a gloved hand reach over to grip his shoulder, spin him around and shove him against the door.

Harry flinched, caught off guard.

Three boys hovered threateningly, cornering him. Two of which were hulking, with thick necks, small eyes and gorilla-like arms. They stood with their chests puffed out, arms angled so that they could flex their muscles. Harry didn’t need to be as sharp-minded as a Ravenclaw to know he was looking at the ancestors of Crabbe and Goyle.

The boy that pushed him stood between them. He, unlike the other two brutes, was slim in build, with a head of short, coal-black hair that dissolved into curls the closer it got to his high forehead. He had a lean face that would have been handsome, if it weren’t for his eyes. They were hooded and black-ringed, as if he had rubbed them too roughly with ink-stained fingers. 

Dread sapped Harry’s strength as he met the boy’s icy gaze, so deeply unsettling, like staring directly into the abyss of a glacial rift.

It was the boy Harry had been warned about. 

Adronis Lestrange.

Lestrange stepped back, scrutinising him from the tips of his toes to his mop of bedraggled hair, his nose wrinkling in disgust the longer he stared.

“I’m sorry, but d’you have a problem?” Harry growled.

Lestrange laughed coldly. “He wants to know if I have a problem, boys,” he said to Crabbe and Goyle, who guffawed. He regarded Harry again, lazily menacing.

“Yeah, I have a problem. I have a problem with you slinking around as if you’re some kind of untouchable legend. You think you’re a leader? Big Bad Blood Traitor Harry Evans, the boy that likes to hex senile old nutcases.” He leaned closer and the edges of his mouth tilted upward. “That’s you. Thinking you’re great with that filthy Squib dogging you around.”

“Seems like you have your mind made up about me,” Harry snapped at him. “I hate to burst your bubble, but I never hexed anyone. And Caelan isn’t a Squib.”

Lestrange scoffed. “Malthace? Heh. I still can’t believe you’re tolerating that lunatic after what he did to that girl. No, moron, I’m talking about your precious Mudblood Lynn.”

“Lyra’s Muggle-born, Lestrange. Here you are saying she’s a Squib. Think about that for a minute, maybe you’ll realise how stupid you sound.”

Lestrange cocked his head at the ceiling, grinding his teeth into an uneven smile. “Oh, she has _some_ magic. Probably the same amount as the fingernail of my pinkie finger. Have you ever even seen her use her wand?”

“I’ve never seen you use your wand either, Lestrange,” Harry retorted, quick as a wink. “Am I supposed to assume you’re a Squib now?”

“You’re right.” Lestrange drew his wand so briskly Harry could’ve blinked and missed it. “Allow me to fix that.”

Harry’s eyes darted to his pillow, knowing his wand was tucked under it. It was only a few steps away, but now, it couldn’t have felt further. 

Lestrange followed his gaze and Harry felt some of his courage shrivel up and die when a sinister grin of realisation stretched his thin lips.

“Go ahead,” Lestrange said, flourishing his empty hand like a showman. “Be our guest.”

Harry’s back left the wall, and he tried to bolt for his wand but he was blocked by the bulky mass of Crabbe. On his other side, Goyle loomed closer, blocking his only other way to escape.

Having no other choice, Harry squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself.

Lestrange laughed, low and mean. “Don’t you worry, I’m in a charitable mood today. So I’ll let you go if you say the magic word.”

Crabbe and Goyle shared twin smirks. Clearly, there was a joke in his words Harry didn’t understand.

“Let me guess,” Harry said sarcastically. “Is it pureblood?”

Lestrange grinned, his eyes alight with wicked glee. “No, not this time. Today, the magic word is…” He paused intentionally, twirling his wand shamelessly between his fingers.

Harry already knew what was coming. He sagged against the door in defeat.

“Mudblood,” Lestrange said with exaggerated relish. “The magic word is Mudblood. Say it and I’ll let you go.”

Harry said nothing.

“W-wait, Adronis,” came a quivering voice from behind Crabbe. Harry could see half of Malfoy past the thug’s huge shoulder, his pale face stricken in fear. “Harry’s just trying out for Quidditch with me. He’s not doing anything wr—”

“Shut up,” Lestrange said without looking back, and Malfoy’s protests shrivelled in his throat. 

Lestrange cupped his hand around his ear, waiting for the word with a playful smirk. “I can’t hear you, Evans. Say it with me. Mud-blood.”

Harry clenched his jaw and levelled him with the most deadly glare he could muster. “I won’t.”

A string of white light burst from the tip of Lestrange’s wand, and Harry’s vision swam. There was a blinding pain, like a streak of fire, as the spell lashed Harry’s collarbone. He had been hit with stinging jinxes before, but nothing was like this. Lestrange’s hex burned like he had been struck with a steel cane.

“Say it. Say Mudblood.”

“No.”

Another stinging hex scorched a thick welt across Harry’s neck and he bit back a yelp. It was as searing as being scalded by boiling hot water. He could already feel his skin swelling, blistering so rapidly he thought it might burst. He ground his teeth together.

“Say it.”

“No.”

The next hex was aimed at his face but Harry blocked it just in time. The hex sliced a white-hot stripe across his defending arms. He looked to Malfoy for help, but when their eyes locked, Malfoy hung his head, let his light hair curtain his face, and turned away. Somehow, that hurt Harry more than anything Lestrange had done to him.

Lestrange towered closer, close enough to kiss him.

“Say Mudblood!” he roared in Harry’s face.

Harry’s response wobbled in his throat. “N-No.”

For a moment, Harry thought Lestrange was going to throttle him with his bare hands but then someone’s fist was pounding furiously against the other side of the door. They both froze.

“Oi! Lestrange!” boomed the person on the other side.

“What do you want, Flint?” Lestrange demanded.

“Your father’s done some right nasty pushing to make you Quidditch Captain instead of me,” thundered the speaker, Flint. “So get out here and be a bloody Captain!”

Lestrange looked so infuriated he might burst a blood vessel. 

Harry was just relieved not to be the object of Lestrange’s hatred, but the moment was short-lived. Lestrange’s attention snapped back to him. He grabbed a fistful of Harry’s hair and brought his mouth to his ear.

“If I see you within breathing distance of the pitch you’ll regret it.”

“I wouldn’t want to be on a team with a tosser like you anyway,” Harry returned shakily.

“Whatever.”

With that, Lestrange shoved Harry aside, wrenched open the door and prowled into the common room, shadowed by Crabbe and Goyle. 

Malfoy did not follow. 

Harry stared daggers at him, silently urging him to look up. To see what Lestrange had done to him. What he could have prevented. But Malfoy’s gaze would not budge from his boots.

“Hurry up, Malfoy,” Lestrange barked from the common room and Malfoy scurried after him.

Others trailed after Malfoy, openly staring down at Harry as they passed him. One, a boy with a scrunched face that reminded Harry of Aunt Marge’s bulldog, sneered at him as he left the dormitories, leaving Harry alone. He could only assume that had been Fredrick Parkinson. 

Harry closed his eyes and rested his weight against the wall. His hands trembled and his heart hammered so hard he thought his ribs would crack. The welts, they didn’t just sting. They _burned_. 

The coolness of the Time-Turner sang against his neck, waiting for him to— _No_. Harry’s will hardened. He wouldn’t go there. He had been through worse, lived through worse. He wouldn’t admit defeat because a lone boy was too much of a coward to fight him with his wand.

Harry staggered through the doorway and into the common room, where his knees buckled, sending him to the floor. He stayed there, collecting himself, and he heard a distant sound, the thump of footsteps approaching. A pair of boots shuffled into his view. Someone was standing in front of him. 

“Are you all right?” a boyish voice asked, but the sound was distant, as if underwater or miles above his head. The common room swayed around him, rocking like a boat on choppy waters. It was happening again. 

Harry raised his head to look, and when he saw a boy staring down at him, his blood froze in his veins. He stared directly into a strikingly grey pair of eyes drawn into a face that was all too familiar. 

“S-Sirius?” Harry choked out in a strangled rasp.

The boy gave a sigh of mock-annoyance. “Yes, I’m being serious,” he replied in good humour, misinterpreting his meaning all together. “Though I suppose that was a stupid question.” To Harry’s surprise, the boy extended a hand to him.

Harry took it and he was pulled upright and into a sturdy handshake. The world was coming back to stillness. It felt as if the boy had quite physically dragged him up from a lake where he was drowning.

“Orion Black, third year,” the boy said, tone dripping with firm pride.

Harry’s heart stuttered and he stepped back to drink in Orion’s appearance. There had been no resemblance with Walburga, but Harry could see Sirius in the gaunt plains of Orion’s face, in his waves of lustrous dark hair, and in the slight wrinkle between his brows. But there was something different about his eyes. While Sirius’ eyes sparked with warmth akin to sunlight, Orion’s held the colder glow of moonlight, and there was a shrewdness there that made him look years beyond thirteen.

“I’m Harry Evans,” Harry said around the swelling lump in his throat. “Thank you.”

Orion dropped his gaze to Harry’s neck. “Looks like Lestrange got you good,” he remarked. 

“Where did he run off to?” Harry asked. He had half a mind to go barrelling after him and hex him black and blue. But the last time he had done that was with Snape, and it hadn’t exactly been his best plan of attack.

Orion shrugged. “I don’t know, I don’t follow that mental head around.”

Harry nodded approvingly. At least Sirius’ father had a bit of common sense. It finally struck him that they were alone in the common room, the other Quidditch players having left already. Had Orion heard what had happened and stayed behind to make sure he was all right? Surely not. Orion didn’t know him, and with his mother’s surname, Orion likely branded him as a Muggle-born. But it was harmless to have a little hope.

Harry removed his gloves with his teeth, and slowly, torturously, peeled back his sleeve to inspect the damage.

“Don’t take it too personally,” Orion said casually, though grimacing all the same. “Lestrange has been a bit unbearable recently.”

“Oh, yeah don’t take it personally,” Harry said dryly, holding up his injured arm between them. “No harm done, I mean, getting slashed by stinging hexes is just a normal day in Slytherin, right?”

Orion stayed silent. He gave the slightest of shrugs in response. 

Harry spluttered furiously, “Of course I’m going to take it personally! He attacked me when I was unarmed.”

Orion widened his eyes and held up his hands in surrender. “All right, all right. Don’t jinx the messenger.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said with a great exhale, and he really meant it. “I haven’t been having the best time here, believe it or not.”

Orion nodded. “Oh, I believe it. From what I heard, I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes. But hey, a bit of Quidditch can cheer you up.” He gestured to Harry’s uniform.

“I _was_ going to try-out. But after some gentle persuasion, I think I’ve changed my mind. What about you? First time trying out?”

Orion grinned, wide and white, and suddenly he looked exactly his age. “I’m the youngest player on the team,” he boasted. “Been the youngest since last year.”

Harry smiled back, compelled by the infectiousness of Orion’s grin. “Let me guess... Seeker?”

“Chaser, actually. Abraxas Malfoy is trying for Seeker this year.”

The name caused a wave of bitterness to overcome Harry and he couldn’t stop the next question from spewing from his lips.

“Aren’t you supposed to not be talking to someone like me, since everyone seems so keen on thinking I’m Muggle-born?”

“Thinking your Muggle-born,” Orion echoed, a hopeful note on the edge of his voice. “So... you’re not?”

“Nope. Not telling.” Despite himself, Harry smiled. “I’ve made it my mission to not tell anyone my blood status, except for a few I deem trustworthy.”

“That sounds stupid.” Orion furrowed his brow into a tiny frown. He was kind of endearing. Harry fought the outrageous, brotherly urge to ruffle his hair.

“If people are going to judge me, they can do it without knowing that tiny piece of information,” Harry said with conviction.

“I... suppose that makes sense.” Orion’s frown deepened, and Harry could practically see the cogs turning in his head as he mulled over his words. “But I still think it’s stupid.”

“Maybe,” Harry agreed as he rolled down his sleeve to cover the marks, his face grim and his tone grave. “Maybe.”

_  
_

__

****

* * *

  


The walk to the Slytherin table felt endless and humiliating, like a walk of shame. Lyra wasn’t at their usual spot yet, Harry had seen on the map she was in the girl’s dorms, probably dozing. While he ate, his eyes wandered to the Head Table and he was relieved to see Professor Alaric sitting there, chatting to Dippet and Slughorn, looking pallid but better overall. The Professor Harry was searching for though, was not there. Dumbledore’s chair remained empty.

“Gone again I see,” came a droll voice to his left.

To Harry’s surprise, it was Walburga Black who had spoken to him, and for the first time. She was perched up at the table, wiping her mouth with a frilly handkerchief while watching him with half-lidded eyes. Harry knew she was trying to get a rise out of him, but curiosity overcame him.

“Gone where?” he demanded.

Walburga’s dark eyes glittered. “Perhaps to where is not the question, but to _who_.”

“Who then?” Harry amended, not expecting a truthful answer.

“His lover,” Walburga purred, her deep brown eyes sharp as they skimmed his face, hoping he would blush. Disappointment flickered blatantly in her expression when he did not.

“Rubbish,” he scoffed.

Walburga gave a considering hum. “You might be right. Who would want him?”

She laughed her grating, drawly laugh, the shrillness of it piercing the low hum of conversation in the background.

Harry didn’t dignify her with a response, too exhausted to be angry and too hungry to be witty. 

A pop of flaming red caught his eye and he saw Lyra marching by the Slytherins to come and sit next to him. Walburga’s face twisted in disdain at the sight of her and she glided away before Lyra could see her.

Lyra flopped down opposite him, her robes wrinkled and her wild hair in loose plaits.

Harry opened his mouth to tell her what had happened but she halted his words with a wave of a sleepy hand.

“Don’t talk to me,” she said groggily. “I haven’t had my tea yet.”

Harry sat back and waited. 

Lyra helped herself to some toast and tea, her movements stiff and zombie-like. Eventually, she must have sensed the charged silence because she stopped stirring her tea and glanced up at him from under her curly mass of hair. Her eyes swelled the size of saucers at the sight of him.

“ _Harry._ ” She gasped. “What on earth happened?”

“I met Lestrange,” he bit out. The image of Lestrange’s mocking smirk and cold eyes flashed across his mind and his fingers curled inwards. “That slimy little bugger caught me off guard. Him and Crabbe and Goyle. I didn’t even have my wand on me.”

Some of the surrounding first years looked up to gape at his injuries, and Harry’s temper flared. He was already fed up with people staring at him, and now he learned just about everyone thought he had attacked that oddball Divination Professor. 

“Watch out, piss him off and he’ll fry your brain,” came a whispery voice from behind him.

“ _Caelan!_ ” Harry barked, wheeling around to face the intruder, but the damage had been dealt. The first years shrank away, immediately veering their gazes elsewhere. 

For a reason that greatly eluded him, Caelan had taken to joining himself and Lyra during mealtimes. And to Harry’s utmost amusement and alarm, none of the Slytherins had protested when Caelan had come strutting over to them, in fact, they seemed to be wary of him, scooting away to give him more room. Harry didn’t quite know what to make of him. He was endlessly excitable, and seemed sincere in his unpredictable enthusiasm, uncaring of anyone watching them. There was something charming about him, despite his morbid sense of humour and the dark undercurrent of viciousness in his presence. But he didn’t seem dangerous to Harry, so he welcomed the strange Hufflepuff.

Lyra, on the other hand, had not been so pleased with the newcomer. Harry often found himself defusing the passive-aggressive tension between them. Caelan would laugh with her one minute, then snipe at her with poorly masked hostility the next. Although Lyra wasn’t doing herself many favours, not bothering to disguise her scepticism of him. She seemed to distrust purebloods all together. While Harry understood why, he hoped that someday, he could convince her that not all purebloods were arrogant, smug, narrow-minded bullies. 

“You’re welcome,” Caelan said, sliding gracefully next to Harry. He was wearing his striped Hufflepuff scarf, which he never seemed to take off. 

“You’re hardly helping me,” Harry told him, exasperated. “I kind of want people not to be afraid of me, especially first years. They’ll believe anything you tell them.”

Caelan's eyes squinted with mirth. “That’s the fun part though, isn’t it?” He lowered his gaze to Harry’s neck and tilted his head in questioning. “Hey, who hurt you, Harry? I’ll beat him up for you.”

“Lestrange and his bodyguards,” Lyra answered for him.

“Bodyguards?”

“You know, Crassus Crabbe?”

“...Hah?”

“Lunnon Goyle?” Lyra offered.

“Oh,” Caelan said, a feline grin stretching across his face. “Ten Tonne Lunn.”

“Caelan, that’s vile!” Lyra exclaimed, dropping her teaspoon with a clatter.

“It’s accurate. And you don’t think what they did to Harry is vile?”

“Of course I do,” she said shortly. “It’s horrible.”

“And Malfoy, he was there too,” Harry muttered. “I should’ve expected it, but I thought Malfoy was... I don’t know, different? I’ve only known him a week but I thought he could’ve been...” 

“A friend,” Lyra finished softly.

“He stood there and watched. He didn’t even try to help me.”

Caelan blinked at him. “Well, duh.”

“What d’you mean?”

“No one interferes with Lestrange. Everyone, Slytherin or not, is afraid of him.”

“Lestrange?” Harry asked, scowling. “Not Riddle?”

“Riddle?” Lyra questioned, untying the knots in her hair and shaking out her plaits. “Why would anyone be afraid of him?”

“Isn’t he the ringleader?” Harry asked.

“No,” Lyra responded, then paused. “Well... maybe. But he doesn’t go around hexing people.”

“But what if he’s telling them too?” Harry argued. “Riddle is always in the centre of the flock, isn’t he? You both saw him in Divination. They look to him like a leader. I’m new here and even I noticed that.”

Caelan tapped his jaw in a pretend display of thinking, annoyingly unreadable. Lyra looped a lock of hair around her finger as she stared over at the other tables, puzzled.

A tiny ember of hope flickered in Harry’s chest. If he could convince them Riddle was the true evil one, he would feel much less alone in his mission to prevent him from discovering the key to immortality. 

“You might be right,” Caelan said. “Lestrange is cracked in the head. He’s too reckless. Someone has to be covering for him. Someone smarter.”

“Exactly!” Harry said eagerly. He didn’t let his hopes rise yet though, Lyra still seemed unsure. 

“Of course we’ve noticed Riddle’s popularity with the purebloods.” she said finally. “But he’s a prefect. He’s nice.” Uncertainty crept into her voice, wavering her argument.

“See?” Caelan pointed at her as if she was evidence. “Nobody suspects the nice, talented, quiet boy, hah? It’s the perfect alibi.”

“ _Alibi_ ,” Lyra repeated sceptically. “Now you’re making it sound as if he killed someone.”

Harry shuddered. It was easy to forget that Riddle was a murderer at sixteen. He had already taken three lives and yet no one suspected a thing, fooling everyone around him with his hollow charm. Harry could imagine the list of things people would say about him. Poor Tom Riddle: handsome, mysterious, gifted, orphan Riddle. Not murderer. Never murderer. 

“Maybe he lives a double life,” Caelan suggested. “He’s like Slytherin’s superhero, but secretly he’s a prat.”

“Super Prat,” Harry joked half-heartedly.

“And Lestrange is his loyal Side Git,” Caelan added gleefully.

Lyra rolled her eyes at them, but the subtle upward quirk of her mouth told Harry she was smothering a laugh.

“By any chance, can you do anything about these marks?” Harry pointed at the welts on his neck. “People stare at me enough as it is.”

Lyra smiled weakly. “Sorry, Harry. I’m no help to you with that.”

It was then Harry remembered what Lestrange had said about her, that she was practically a Squib, with barely any magic. Now that he thought about it, he noticed she had never once used magic in his presence. Could she really be...? No, that was exactly what Lestrange wanted him to think, and Harry wouldn’t let him have that victory. 

“Here,” Caelan said, drawing closer to him. “Have my scarf, as an honorary Hufflepuff.”

Caelan pulled his scarf off of his neck and slowly, gently, wrapped it around Harry’s. A hiss of pain escaped through his teeth as the wool brushed his blistered skin. But it was soft and it covered the marks.

Caelan clasped his bruised hands together and grinned, as if happy to see him in it.

They spent the rest of breakfast coming up with new nicknames for Lestrange, each one more ridiculous than the next, and concocting make-believe plans to get him expelled. It put Harry in a good mood until he saw Lestrange saunter into the Great Hall with Dorian Avery, the two flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. Just like that, Harry’s peace of mind vanished like smoke in the wind.

Just seeing them so casually enjoying breakfast, as if what had happened in the dormitories never occurred at all, made his blood boil. 

He had already made the mistake of keeping his pain to himself with Umbridge, letting himself suffer, too proud to tell someone, to ask for help. He was not going to make the same mistake again. Harry would happily take on Lestrange in a real duel, but he was overcome with the need to do something, even if it was the cowardly option.

Harry rose to his feet and strode toward the Head Table with intention, until a hand curved around his wrist and yanked him back around to see Lyra’s shocked face.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded in a forceful whisper.

“I have to tell someone what happened or he’ll do it to someone else,” Harry insisted, then tried to jerk his wrist free to which she tightened her grip. “Let go.”

“You mustn’t, Harry. You can’t tell anyone.”

“ _Why not?_ ” he burst out, suddenly furious. Several heads turned in their direction, and Harry felt a hot rush of embarrassment.

Lyra bit her lip, her eyes shifting nervously between Harry and the staring faces. “I know you’re angry. You have every right to be, but just please listen to me before you go off tattling to Dippet.”

She released his hand and Harry folded his arms over his chest and raised his eyebrows at her to tell her, _I’m waiting._

Lyra raised her chin and brushed her hands over her skirt, equally determined as he was. 

“Thank you.” She paused, trying to find the right words for a moment. “You see them?” She jerked her head towards the other tables. Harry followed the movement, his eyes travelling from Ravenclaw, to Hufflepuff, and finally Gryffindor. He allowed his gaze to linger on the comforting scarlet and gold colours for a moment and a sharp pang pierced his chest. When the hat told him he was part Slytherin, he tried to take it in his stride. Now, he realised it bothered him more deeply than he ever expected. He turned back to Lyra, mildly confused as to where she was going with this.

She must have seen the sadness flash behind his eyes because her expression softened and the hardness in her voice thawed. “If you were Sorted into any of those Houses, things would be different. Simpler. You can talk to the teachers, you can talk to your friends. But you’re not one of them, Harry, you’re a Slytherin now.”

At the Slytherin table, Harry noticed some of the students were watching him curiously and exchanging speculative whispers about him. Others, the younger years, were playing Exploding Snap and wizard chess, and the older years were fretting over their homework or simply enjoying a pleasant breakfast. They didn’t look evil. They looked... normal, like any other House. 

“Take a good long look,” Lyra said, “because if you tell Dippet, or Dumbledore, or even Slughorn what happened, every single person you see sitting at that table will vouch for Lestrange.”

Harry’s gaze snapped back to Lyra’s face.

“They’ll call you a liar, Harry. You’ll be known as a rat. And then no one will take you seriously, I’ve seen it happen countless times before.”

“They can’t all be afraid of Lestrange,” Harry mumbled miserably, his arms falling weakly to his sides.

“It’s not just him, it’s his father.” She stepped closer and lowered her voice. “Lazarus Lestrange is a powerful man. Very feared. He belongs to one of the most influential of the pureblood families, next to the Blacks of course. He’s brutal, and after his accident last year, when he lost an eye, he’s been even worse. And if you’re right, Tom Riddle might be a part of it too. Maybe an even bigger part of it than I imagined.” She breathed in deeply. “So my point is, it’s different here. It’s not like homeschool, it’s not like Gryffindor or Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw. This is Slytherin, Harry, it’s an entirely different game.”

Harry’s gaze swivelled to the end of the table. There, watching him with sadistic curiosity, was Riddle’s gang. Lestrange sat with his back straightened, showing the poised length of his neck, lips curved into a dangerous smile. Next to him, Avery narrowed his eyes at Harry. Mulciber smirked at him, thoroughly amused by the spectacle he was making of himself, and the others had him locked with suspicious glares. Riddle himself was absent. He didn’t need to be there. 

Harry pivoted back to Lyra, and at her dismayed expression, some of his determination evaporated. She could see it on his face, as clear as day.

“You play by their rules now.”

_  
_

__

****

* * *

  


After breakfast, Harry, Lyra and Caelan decided to leave early for their next class. Harry fell into step behind his two friends as they made their way to Transfiguration. His heart quaked in anticipation at the thought of seeing Dumbledore again, but he knew he couldn’t avoid him forever.

One of Riddle’s gang, a weedy boy with droopy features, waylaid Harry and held out his hand in a rushed greeting. Harry warily accepted. 

“I’m Nott,” he said, his voice wheezy and thin, as unpleasant as the skittering of insect legs. “Sylas Nott.”

“Harry Evans.”

Behind Nott, Caelan and Lyra had paused at the door and were looking back at Harry. Lyra’s forehead creased with worry, and Caelan eyed Nott, cold and suspicious. Harry gestured for them to go on, that he would be fine. 

“I heard you can produce a corporeal Patronus,” Nott said offhandedly. “Is it true?”

“That’s... right.”

“Could you tell me how to do it?”

“Er, all right?”

So, Harry began to explain the need for a happy memory, not something superficial, like receiving a gift or money, but something that sparked real warmth. He faltered in his words when he noticed Nott was barely paying attention, his interest straying to the passing students and his expression flat with boredom. 

It took Nott a second too long to realise Harry had stopped talking and he gave a slow blink. 

“Thanks for that,” he said, lifting his hand with a minimal effort of a wave.

“Anytime,” Harry started to say, but Nott had already dived back into the bustling crowd. 

Puzzled to no end, Harry adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder, and entered Dumbledore’s classroom.

When he passed through the doorway, he was hit by a blast of light. Dumbledore had left the window shutters wide open, and he was momentarily blinded. When his eyes adjusted to the room, he had to do a double-take.

Lyra sat near the front of the class and next to her, was Dorian Avery. Caelan too, was at the front on the far side of the room, and seated next to him was Callias Mulciber. 

Neither Avery nor Mulciber seemed very happy with this arrangement, leaning on the edge of their seats as if trying to escape a particularly foul stench.

Lyra’s expression veered on concern and disbelief, she too was leaning as far away from Avery as possible. Caelan didn’t seem to mind at all, scrawling graffiti onto his desk with his quill as if Mulciber wasn’t even there.

The only seat left was one in the centre of the classroom.

Next to Tom Riddle. 

Harry could’ve slapped himself. He should’ve clocked that something was wrong the moment one of his gang members willingly came within hexing distance of him. This could only mean one thing—that Riddle wanted to speak to him, or was at least interested in him. 

That frightened Harry.

With no other option, Harry reluctantly slid into the seat next to him, conscious of the way Riddle’s eyes traced his movements.

“Harry Evans,” he greeted, his smile an elegant curve. “I’ve been meaning to ask you how you’ve been this past week. I hope you’re finding Slytherin accommodating.”

Harry glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, careful not to make eye contact. The sun caught the side of Riddle’s head, but it failed to bring out any hidden colours, only further accentuating his colourlessness. He was captivating in an outlandish, ghostly way, like an old photograph, with a full mouth, bone-pale skin and black silk hair.

The smile enhancing Riddle’s face seemed warm and sincere. He had a humble manner about him, and a kind, comfortable presence. If someone didn’t know any better, Riddle would’ve appeared as a genuinely lovely person.

But Harry did know better.

“Yes,” Harry said carefully. “Very... accommodating. Thank you, Riddle.”

Riddle’s smile grew, revealing perfect white teeth. “There’s no need for the formalities, Harry. We’re both in Slytherin, after all—can I call you Harry?”

Harry hesitated. The echo of Voldemort’s cold voice whispering his name slithered across his mind as he paused. He did not like the thought of Tom Riddle using his first name. It was too personal. Too intimate. But he knew refusing was a foolish move.

“Of course,” he replied with forced nonchalance.

“Wonderful. You may call me Tom if you like.”

The classroom door flew open and in swept a flurry of violet robes that seemed to take up the space of the entire doorway, so long the hems brushed the floor. In its wake, billowed a long cloak, waving wildly behind like a great pair of purple wings. 

Within it all, was Dumbledore. 

“Good morning students,” he welcomed with all of his merry cheer, waving with a little golden pocket watch in his hand. “I am sorry for my delay. Time seems to be escaping me recently.”

Even fifty-years-younger, Dumbledore still had all his formidable height. His face was softer, less wrinkled but still lined with warm laughter. The sun bathed the tips of his hair in an auburn glow, far shorter than what it would be in the future, barely brushing his shoulders and his beard was merely a fraction of its eventual colossal length. 

His presence made Harry’s heart swell with an ache he couldn’t describe. Just over a week ago, he had seen Dumbledore die, cloaked in the terrible green light, and consumed by blackness. And now, here he was, in all of his cheery optimism and youthful energy. He was _alive_. 

He must have been in his sixties, but to Harry, he looked so young. He could still see traces of _his_ Dumbledore in his face, in the long crooked nose and the kind crinkles around his eyes. 

“That’s Professor Dumbledore,” Riddle commented in his ear and Harry jolted, almost forgetting his companion entirely.

“I’m sorry,” Riddle said, lowering his head as if shy. “I assumed you wouldn’t know, since you missed the first class.”

Looking at him, it occurred to Harry that Riddle wore many faces, many masks. In Slughorn’s memory, he wore the mask of a quiet, dutiful and attentive student, driven by curiosity. When the unicorns attacked, he wore the mask of a natural leader, commanding, strong, but not forceful. Harry knew that his real face was the one he wore in the Chamber of Secrets, cold and sneering and smug. 

A foul thought crept into his mind. Had Riddle, in his blind resentment of Muggle-borns, sent Adronis Lestrange after him? But then why would he want to sit next to him? Maybe this was his way of tormenting Harry. Or maybe Lestrange attacked him just because he felt like it, just because he _could._

Harry placed his wand in front of him, determined to ignore Riddle for the remainder of the lesson. But then Riddle laid his pale yew wand on their desk and Harry couldn’t tear his eyes away from it.

This was the wand that killed his parents. This was the wand that killed Cedric and it was just an arm’s reach from him. Harry resisted the urge to take it and snap it clean in two and toss it into the deepest part of the Black Lake.

Riddle caught him staring and quirked a brow.

Harry ducked his head. “Sorry. I—er—I just never seen a wand like that before. It looks quite unique.”

He almost winced at his own words but Riddle seemed to buy his weak excuse, raising his chin proudly.

Of course, he would buy it. Riddle had a narcissistic streak a mile wide.

“I couldn’t be more pleased with it,” Riddle admitted. He picked it up and ran his fingers tenderly across the wood. Beside him, Harry tensed, his own fingers twitching closer to his wand. Riddle, seemingly unaware of his discomfort, continued, “My wand has a Phoenix feather core, one of the rarest types. It’s quite... special.”

“Oh, wow,” Harry said in a poor attempt at surprise and interest. It was bizarre, knowing more than Riddle did. Oddly, it didn’t make him feel more confident, it made him feel like an imposter, someone who did not belong. 

“According to Ollivander, there exists a brother wand to this one, but I’ve yet to meet the owner.”

For a brief moment, Riddle’s eyebrows dipped into a faint frown. He didn’t like that thought, Harry realised. Riddle hated any indication that anyone could be equal to him. Or worse, stronger than him. He glanced at Dumbledore, who was speaking to Lyra, saying something that made her laugh giddily, her face open and shining with joy. 

Harry’s gaze dropped to his own wand and felt a spark of victory that Riddle was ignorant to the knowledge that the brother wand he disliked so much was right next to him, in Harry’s possession. Riddle peered at it curiously.

“What’s your wand core, Harry? If you don’t mind me asking of course.” Another flawless smile plastered Riddle’s face.

“Ah, Tom,” Dumbledore called, interrupting their conversation and approaching their table. “I heard all about this unicorn incident and how you saved quite a few students from trips to the hospital wing. On behalf of the school, I sincerely thank you. You did us a noble service.”

Riddle looked away, a hint of redness spreading up his neck. “It was nothing, sir. Anything I can do to help.”

“Ah!” Dumbledore exclaimed enthusiastically when he noticed Harry. “Harry Evans, who arrived here under the most unusual of circumstances.” He pushed his glasses up his crooked nose as he studied Harry. “But not as unusual perhaps, as your sense of fashion,” he added, lifting the tassels of Caelan’s scarf.

“Oh, that,” Harry said, smiling easily. “Caelan Malthace let me borrow it. I was, er, cold earlier.”

Hearing his name, Caelan pivoted in his seat. He caught Harry’s eye, flashed a cheeky grin and winked dramatically. 

Harry grinned lazily back at him. Dumbledore followed his stare and nodded in what Harry hoped was approval.

At the corner of his eye, he saw Riddle’s eyes narrow into slits upon seeing Caelan. 

“I see you’ve made a fair few friends,” Dumbledore said. “Ms Lynn has told me how you saved her and Mr Malfoy from the mysterious unicorn rampage. Such actions are worthy of my own house, might I say.”

Harry’s eyes locked on to Lyra’s back, and he felt a sudden rush of affection for her. She was daydreaming again, gazing out the windows, twirling a curl as she did so. 

“She’s been wonderful to me,” Harry told him sincerely.

“I suppose she has been helping you settle into your new home?” Dumbledore asked.

Slytherin wasn’t home, Harry wanted to tell him, his true home was in Gryffindor. He bit his tongue but he couldn’t prevent his face from scrunching reflexively and Dumbledore laughed. He always had a way of hearing the things Harry didn’t say.

“Not settling in very well, are we?”

Beside him, he felt Riddle’s gaze leave Caelan’s head to clap onto his face.

“It’s not that, sir. I just need more...” Harry allowed an ironic smile to curl his lips. “Time.”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled with a fond curiosity, so brilliantly blue behind his glasses.

“While you’re here Professor,” Riddle interjected. He leaned over the side of the desk to grab something from his bag and reached over Harry to hand Dumbledore a roll of parchment.

For a mere moment, Riddle’s black and gold ring was directly at Harry’s eye level, and up close, he could see something was etched into the stone. But before he could make sense of it, Dumbledore accepted the parchment and Riddle moved his hand back.

“Just a little essay on the use of Transfiguration in a duelling environment,” Riddle said. 

“Thank you, Tom,” Dumbledore said pleasantly. “Always keeping me busy with work,” he said to Harry with a smile. “Now, I do believe I have a class to teach.” He waved his hand in farewell, and Harry skin tingled with a strange warmth. 

Throughout the class, he could’ve sworn Riddle kept glancing at him, as if wanting to say something, as if he wasn’t finished talking. But Harry refused to look at him, spurred on by steely stubbornness. 

Despite having to sit next to Riddle, he felt oddly lighter for the rest of the day, and couldn’t put his finger on why. It wasn’t until late that night, when he went to look at his wounds, he realised that they had been completely healed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for getting through this super long chapter! I have a big scene from Tom’s pov coming up to make up for the lack of his perspective in this one. The whole next chapter will include Tom from either Harry’s pov or Tom’s own :D


End file.
